Heartland
by Nomi001
Summary: Heartland
1. Chapter 1

AN1: This story borrows from the Growing Pains and LL verse, but is not really part of it. Call it an AU of the GP-LL-verse.

AN2: The little country in which most of the action takes place is an invention of the various contributing writers. It does not exist as a country; it does not exist as the described geographical landscape. But the country was set in a region that does exist.

AN3 : This story is a 'challenge' and strings together a number of paragraphs from a number of people into hopefully something that makes sense. Thanks Prank for the Heartland Theory, without which there will be no string to tie all the little snippets into a tale.

* * *

HEARTLAND

**Introduction**

-o-

"Who rules East Europe commands the Heartland;

Who rules the Heartla nd commands the World-Island;

Who rules the World-Island controls the world."

-Sir Halford Mackinder (1861-1947)

The above quote was Mackinder's summary of Heartland Theory, as written in his key paper The Geographical Pivot of History, which he presented at the **Royal Geographical Society** in 1904.

To Mackinder, the Heartland lay at the centre of the world-island, stretching from the Volga to the Yangtze, and from the Himalayas to the Artic. It was the area, which during his time, was ruled by the Russian Empire.

While the Heartland Theory initially received little attention outside of geography, this theory would eventually come to influence the foreign policies of world powers for the next hundred years. And as the Kiswahili saying goes: when elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.

Bless the grass of Heartland that grew bright and green despite the trampling of elephants.

* * *

HEARTLAND

**Chapter One**

-o-

Whenever Frank Hardy thinks about the last time he saw Joe in person, what comes most vividly to mind was that unwavering love and respect in Joe's eyes and that classy-looking A4-sized leather-bound book that his little brother gifted to him. Etched onto the leather cover in bold golden letters was a single word: Heartland. Frank opened that leather-bound book most reverently. Every page of artwork within that book was painstakingly and lovingly hand-drawn and meticulously water-colored_._ On the last page was a short note: _You are, have been, and will always be the best big brother in the world. Love, Joe._

That last morning, he woke up early and was rushing down for breakfast at 6:15AM. He and Joe would have to leave the house by seven latest if they wanted to make it to Manhattan city on time, and as usual, Joe was still dilly-dallying in his room. Eighteen year old dark haired and dark eyed Frank Hardy headed towards the kitchen, set the kettle boiling and threw several slices of bread into the toaster before heading back to the foot of the stairs.

"Joe! Hurry! We have to be at The Radisson Lexington by half past nine. We don't want to keep Dad waiting!" Frank hollered up the stairs and hoped his brother would be making his way down soon.

Their father, Fenton Hardy, was a well-known private investigator who formerly worked for the NYPD. Fenton Hardy was currently in the middle of a low profile case, and had asked his sons to join him over in Manhattan city. Frank was eager to see what he and Joe could do to help. It had been a while since he and Joe had the opportunity to help in one of their father's cases. A small part of Frank's eagerness faded as he recalled the two big misunderstandings that almost cost Joe his life. But it took something valuable from Joe; those two incidents took his brother's innocence. But Joe recovered and forgave them. Frank marveled at his brother's generosity of spirit. He might not have; not for the magnitude of their sins and the fact it happened twice in a row so close in time to each other. They had agreed to take time off cases for a while to spend some quality family time together. They spent a month in France, where Joe won an all-expense-paid 4-week fellowship to attend the _Ecole Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-arts_ in Paris. In fact, Fenton Hardy just returned to work about a month ago. This was his father's third case, and it sounded like a big one.

There was a soft 'ping' sound. Frank rushed back to the toasts and glared a little mournfully at the blackened toasts that just popped up in the brand new electric toaster that a neighbor gave to Mom for her birthday. He almost burnt his fingers as he moved those toasts onto the cooling rack. He loved his warm toasts, but he kept forgetting how scorching hot newly toasted bread burnt almost to a crisp could be.

For the hundredth time, he wished his mother was home to make breakfast. Unfortunately for them, Laura Hardy was away on a month long holiday cruise with Aunt Gertrude, and the boys were left to fend for themselves at home alone. This was only Day Six, and Frank was already almost tempted to ring his Mom to beg her to come home. His cooking sucked, the kitchen felt greasy, and his laundry stank. And he certainly did not want to know how Joe was coping. Given the sad sight and smell of his own laundry, he was certain the last thing he wanted to know was the state of Joe's laundry. One reason why he did not call his Mom was pride. It was true that his Mom deserved that holiday given how hard she worked to maintain the house and to look after him and Joe. He should not call her for silly and selfish reasons – like charcoaled toasts and stinky laundry. Moreover, he was all of eighteen, and would be starting college this coming autumn. The very last thing he wanted was for Mom to think that he was not ready. It would be far too humiliating if Mom started popping up every weekend to check on his laundry when he moved into his hostel. He was a perfect 4.0 student at Bayport High; he breezed through his homework, he patiently churned through the boring and tedious grunt work for his father, surely he could handle… housework?

_Apparently not…_ Frank sighed heavily.

He watched helplessly as the eggshell fragments dropped down towards the heated fry-pan in slow motion and embedded itself into the egg which was just turning a nice shade of yellow. It seemed he broke the yolk in addition to crushing the shell. And he was supposed to be the meticulous, controlled, and talented big brother? Frank dumped the half yellow half browned contents of the fry-pan into the bin in disgust. The heat from the newly cooked egg and the oil sizzled on the plastic garbage bag and burned right through, landing at the bottom of the bin with a soft 'plop'.

Frank Hardy conceded defeat, and mentally added 'housework expert' to his list of requirements for his future wife. Callie, his current girlfriend, was going to kill him, but he could not care at that moment in time. Someone needs to do the housework, period. He wrapped the hot eggs in a couple disposable kitchen towelettes before chucking it all into another new garbage bag. Then he gave the oily bottom of the bin a quick wipe. They were going to be spending a week in Manhattan, and the last thing he wanted was to leave anything behind that might attract ants. He would never be able to explain to him Mom how he managed to invite an army of ants into their home in her month long absence. Finally, he picked up a spoon and started scrapping away the charred part of the toasts before putting them on two plates for himself and for Joe.

Then the whistling of the boiling kettle got his full attention as he slowly poured the hot water into two mugs that was already pre-filled with cocoa powder. There would be no tiny barely visible steaming hot water droplets landing on his arm today. Frank never realized what an impatient person he could be until he started learning about making coffee. And after his disastrous attempt with filtered coffee the last two days, Frank wisely figured he'd be better off with hot chocolate. Soon, a light aromatic cocoa scent filled the kitchen, slightly masking the charred smell of the still warm toasts.

And his one year younger blond headed blue-eyed brother came trotting down the stairs just on time to eat. Frank could have sworn his little brother had inbuilt radars where food was concerned.

"Thanks for making breakfast, bro," Joe greeted as he threw his packed duffel bag next to Frank's and sniffed the air. "Did I smell fried eggs?" Joe asked as he craned his neck searching for those elusive eggs. His eyes finally landed on the bin and… Joe picked up the peanut butter jar and started slathering a thick layer of peanut butter jam over his unevenly shaped toast before shoving the entire slice into his mouth.

Frank turned a bright red before reaching for the misshapen toasts on his plate. He was immensely relieved that Joe simply sat down and ate all his miserable cooking the last few days without making any wisecrack comments. He was not certain if his ego could have taken it. Suddenly, a sense of helpless anger washed through him. He pushed his plate away and stood up so quickly, and Joe looked up at him, surprise clearly written across his features.

"Let's head out for breakfast!" Frank blurted out before Joe could make any remarks. "My treat!"

"Thanks for just eating everything I cooked in the last few days, Joe," Frank continued in a self-conscious tone when Joe simply looked at him curiously. "But I think its time we get a proper and well cooked meal." Then he added with a wan smile. "I think I just have to admit that I have no talent for cooking…"

Joe took a quick glance about the kitchen before asking to his brother. "Would you like your eggs sunny side up or scrambled?"

"Huh… sunny side up?" Frank responded warily as he watched his little brother moved swiftly but confidently from the dining table to the cooking area.

Joe grinned as he removed the unwashed fry-pan from the sink and gave it a quick wipe with a sheet of disposable kitchen towelette before placing it back on the stove and turning on the fire. While waiting for the oil to heat up, he removed four eggs and some bacon from the fridge. Then he cracked the eggs over the fry-pan two at a time, then using the spatula to move to cooking eggs to one side, he added several strips of bacon to the fry-pan. Four more pieces of bread went into the toaster after Joe made some adjustments to it. Three minutes later, Joe served two plates of steaming hot breakfasts while Frank stared at him open-mouthed.

"I didn't know you can cook?!" Frank commented almost accusingly.

"A disciple, according to the ancient traditions, handles all the household chores for his Master," Joe answered with a careless shrug. "Pan _Shifu_ didn't insist but I offered. He accepted me as his _LuMenDiZi_, and I wanted to be a good disciple. So I went all the way. I learned to cook then…"

"Then why did you just kept quiet and eat all those stuff…" Frank turned red again from embarrassment.

"Because you seemed so determined to do everything, and you put so much effort into it," Joe responded with a little smile as he remembered his similar experiences. His eyes darkened as he recalled those dark times, when his confidence was at rock bottom, and when he was so desperate to do something well, to be loved and appreciated if not for succeeding, then at least for trying. "Pan _Shifu_ ate all my horrible cooking those first few days too without a single word of complaint. And Frank, I really appreciate all your efforts, big brother."

"Well… Mom did say to take care of you…" Frank mumbled, feeling more than a little silly. "And I _am_ the big brother here…"

"I didn't know that cooking is a pre-requisite for being a big brother," Joe teased.

"But taking care of my little brother is," Frank murmured sadly in a serious tone and under his breath. "And God knows I haven't been doing a good job lately…"

Joe missed most of Frank's words, but knew his big brother was again remembering the events of the last nine months.

"Hey, big brothers are humans too. They can't do everything! That'll be just too darn scary!" Joe said in a half joking tone, but his eyes remained focus on his brother, his expression serious. He meant what he said. Having a paragon for a brother, or father or mother or girlfriend for the matter, was scary. He knew that better than anyone in his family, after all, he almost killed himself once trying to live up to the high standards that he perceived was set by his brother.

When Frank did not react, he put down his fork and knife, pushed back his half eaten breakfast, and stood up. There was something he meant to do after breakfast, but now seemed like the perfect time.

"Hey bro… do you mind coming up to my room for a second? There's something I need to show you."

It was that something in Joe's voice that got his attention. "Sure!" Frank answered as he got up and followed Joe back up the stairs.

Frank smiled at the sight of Joe's room. At first glance, it looked reasonably neat. Joe had recently mastered the 'Art of Appearances', as Mr. Pan puts it. A closer examination of Joe's room would reveal a mass of irregular shapes under Joe's bed. What appeared to be a neatly stacked pile of books on Joe's study table was actually a pile of books hastily stacked one on top of the other in no particular order. There was a big plastic container under Joe's chair – that was where he simply dumped all the odds and ends into it before Mom or Aunt Gertrude walked into the room. Finally, there was this suspiciously shaped lump under the blankets at the foot-end of the bed. Otherwise, Joe's room looked as spic and span as can be, Frank observed with a chuckle. He leaned against the door and waited patiently as Joe rummaged through his wardrobe and finally emerged with something in his arm.

"Here," Joe handed him an A4-sized leather bound book.

Frank could see that it was a costly gift. Costly not in monetary terms but in the time and efforts invested in it. Etched onto the soft dark leather cover in bold gold letters was the word 'Heartland'. He opened the leather-bound book most carefully and reverently, taking his time to appreciate the hand-drawn artwork on every page. His brother's sweat and efforts was there in every stroke of the pen, and every splash of color. And on the very last page of that book was a short note: _You are, have been, and will always be the best big brother in the world. Love, Joe._

"I wanted to give this to you last week during your graduation, but couldn't get it done on time," Joe admitted shyly. "It's my first comic strip – to be published by Dark Horse Comics. This is the only hand-drawn copy in the world, for my big brother, and the best big brother anyone could ask for. I hope you like it."

"Like it?" Frank repeat in wonderment. "Of course I like it! How could you even think otherwise? This is fantastic! And Dark Horse Comics! The third largest comic publisher worldwide! This is great! Congratulations, Joe!"

He meant every word. Dark Horse Comics was one of the largest comic publishers in the business and was known for works such as Sin City, Akira, Hellboy and 300.

"I haven't told Mom and Dad yet," Joe confessed. "I wanted you to be the first to know. I'll tell them together after Mom return from her cruise."

Frank nodded. This was Joe's achievement and Joe's moment of glory. He could keep it a secret until then. Again his fingers traced Joe's note at the end of the book. He could not believe after all that happened Joe still held him in such high esteem.

"Frank?"

He looked up and found himself staring straight into Joe's eyes. In that short instant, he saw what Joe wanted him to see; that rock-steady and unwavering love and respect and belief that the kid brother always had for the big brother. There were moments in the last few months that he had thought he lost that. There were hours he spent brooding in his room, wondering if he could ever earn that back and plotting in his mind how he could do it. There were times when he thought that Joe finally outgrew his boyish hero-worship, and that he would never have it back. And there were moments when he admitted to the deepest part of his soul that he really did not deserve it – not after the number of times he failed his brother…

"I know that I have not been the best little brother in the world," Joe started his little speech without losing his eye contact with Frank. "But I know that matters not to you. It was in every action you took for me, in every thing that you did for me. All those times that you bail me out of trouble, when you rescued me from the consequences of my impulsiveness, when you tried to explain to Mom and Dad what happened without making me looked bad. I know, from all that, that you loved me for who I am, and despite of what I did."

Frank wanted to cut in and deny all that. Joe was too generous as usual. The truth was he let his little brother down. The family let Joe down because they did not truly understand him for what he was simply because Joe was different. His thought processes work differently from the rest of them. He was not as logical, and he was not as scientifically inclined. So they did not truly treasure who they had until it was almost too late…

"Frank."

Joe's firm voice jerked him back into current awareness, and again he found his eyes locked with his brother's deep blue ones. And Joe continued firmly, his voice deep and laden with heartfelt emotions.

"I want you to know that you always came through for me. You have always come through for me, _even if it might take a while at times_, but at the end of the day, you never let me down. I know that I can always depend on you no matter what. And there is no one in this world I love or trust more than you, big brother. You're really the best!"

It was then that Frank realized that the light that shone from Joe's eyes was no longer that same old boyish hero-worship. It was something else, and something more. Frank knew at that moment his little brother had really outgrown that 'hero-worship'. But that realization did not fill him with despair as he feared. That was because Joe showed him through actions and deeds, that he loved him, and respected him, and admired him for who he was over the last few months. A big brother who kept the bullies away at school, a brilliant student whom he could turn to for tutoring, the best friend whom he turned to for advice, a confidante with whom he shared his deepest concerns, and finally the partner he could depend on in their sleuthing adventures. And this was so much better than boyish hero-worship, because this was the real thing. He need never fear losing his brother's love and respect, because this love and respect included all his flaws and faults, warts and all. This was, Frank knew, so much more infinitely valuable.

His eyes burned.

"Thank you," he said.

What else could he say? At that moment, Frank promised that he would make sure that Joe's faith in him was not misplaced. He swore never to let his brother down again, that the events of the last nine months would never be repeated again, ever. He learned his lessons well.

"You're welcome," Joe replied softly.

"And you're wrong. You're the best little brother in the world, and I wouldn't trade you for anything or anyone else," Frank declared, only to find that little lump in his throat suddenly too big for him to continue. But he would, later, he promised his brother with his eyes.

It was an action that he would later come to regret.

Joe ducked his head, suddenly shy.

And in the sacred silence that follows, Frank carefully rewrapped his priceless graduation gift in the soft tissues and replaced it in the box from whence it came. Then he held that box gently and firmly in his hands, relishing in its comforting weight.

Joe coughed a little uncomfortably. "I think we're going to be late…"

Frank's eyes flew to the clock on his brother's table. Drats! It was fifteen past seven already! He quickly went back to his room, opened the little cabinet within which he kept his most treasured belongs, and carefully lowered Joe's priceless gift into it.

"Hrmmm… Frank? Since I cooked breakfast, can you do the dishes? I still need to hang up my laundry…"

Joe's voice came floating though Frank's half opened door.

"Sure, and hurry!" Frank yelled after Joe's retreating form as he rushed back down towards the kitchen.

"And you'll tell Dad we're late because you burnt breakfast, right?"

Frank could almost see that same old charming wicked grin on Joe's face. He smiled despite knowing that he was being taken advantage of… again. His little brother had not done that to him for a while. Some might thought him crazy, but he missed those moments. It was part of their closeness, that silly bantering between them, him indulging in his brother, and Joe letting him. Joe letting him… Frank now knew with utter certainty. And Joe had not… not since… Frank shoved those remembrances aside. They were okay now, and he would make sure it stayed that way.

"Don't push your luck, little brother!" Frank's exasperated tone was at odds with that wide smile on his face.

"Do that, Frank, and I'll make sure this batch of laundry of yours don't stink," Joe yelled back. This time Frank could certainly see that wicked grin in his mind.

"You mean you knew why my laundry stinks and you didn't tell me??" Frank almost screeched back at his little brother. He did not. That would have been too undignified. But how he hated that horrible musty smell on his clothes when he wore them!

"Well, you never asked…"

The tone was hesitant. Frank halted his actions. It was clear to him that Joe still had issues regarding his self-worth before his family members despite everything he had achieved. And that was in part his doing, and Mom's and Dad's doing. He sighed. They needed to talk. No, they needed to act. And he would start here.

"Why do my clothes stink?" he asked conversationally as he dried the plates and pan and placed them back onto the shelves.

"Because they aren't dry, big brother," Joe answered. "It's the stink of damp clothes."

"They are dry! I do check before packing them into my cupboard!" Frank insisted. Of course he made sure his clothes were dry before keeping them!

"Well… Frank…" Joe drawled. "There are dry, and there are dry."

Frank growled in frustration. Joe as usual made no sense. But if his brother's clothes did not stink, then…

"I'll show you when we get back from Manhattan, Frank. We better hurry now. I'll check the upstairs…" Joe hollered just before heading back up the stairs.

"I'll cover downstairs," Frank returned. "And Joe?"

"Yes Frank?"

"Next time… if I'm doing things wrong and acting like an ass pretending that everything is going well… just give me a whack on the head… okay?"

"If you insist, big brother!"

Frank eyes narrowed at that absolutely wicked looking smile on Joe's face, and suddenly wondered if it was too late for him to take back those words. Then it was too late as Joe disappeared up the stairs.

Five minutes later, after making sure that all the windows were properly closed and locked, and all unnecessary electrical appliances were switched off, they turned on the burglar alarm, locked the doors, before getting into their van and driving off.

Unfortunately, they never got to Manhattan. They never even left Bayport.

They were cruising along Veterans Memorial Drive, happily discussing what kind of assistance their father might require of them. Soon the residential area gave way to Connetquot River State Park, and the brothers halted their discussion for a moment to enjoy the sight of the trees and bushes that lined both sides of the road. Suddenly, a dark colored SUV that was behind them sped up, made to overtake them, but instead rammed them from the side. Frank instinctively swerved, sending the van off the road and down the slope, crash landing amidst several meter high bushes.

The time was 8:10AM on a Saturday morning. It was still early, and there was nary a car in sight to witness that planned accident.

Three masked men emerged from the SUV and made their way down to the wrecked van. They were professionals and knew what they were doing. In minutes, they had the brothers hauled out of the van and nicely tied up and gagged on the ground before they fully recovered from the impact of their 'accident'.

Frank and Joe stopped struggling with their bonds the moment the tallest of the masked men pointed a gun at them and told them in no uncertain terms to keep still. They glared at the three men towering over them and waited with pounding hearts.

"Which one are we taking?" a deep and husky voice asked.

"I have a preference for blondes," another raspy voice stated.

"Blonde it is then," the tall guy who was also obviously the leader agreed. "Put him to sleep. No one would wonder about a sleeping boy in the back seat."

Frank Hardy watched helplessly as the guy with the deep husky voice took out a syringe and plunged it into Joe's arm. There was nothing he could do with his arms and legs tied up and a gun to his head. So he locked eyes with Joe and tried to assure his brother that everything would be fine, that he and Dad would find him and get him back from the kidnappers. And Joe blinked in response, telling Frank he understood. But Frank continued keeping that eye contact until his brother's eyelids started to droop, and was soon fully closed. The moment Joe's body went limp the other two started to undo Joe's bindings and gag.

The tall leader bent down, stared Frank in the eye, and spoke in a clear firm voice.

"Tell your father that if he stays off this case, he'll get his little boy back in two week's time. Otherwise…" leaving that threat hanging, the leader stood up. "And Rocky here like he said, does have a preference for blondes," he added before heading back to his SUV, signaling his men to follow with his little brother.

Frank struggled with his bonds and kept his eyes on his unconscious brother all the way till Joe dropped out of sight. He noted with a sinking heart that the men ignored the SUV. They must have another car waiting, which meant that there was a fourth person, Frank guessed. Then he heard several car doors slammed shut followed by the sounds of an engine fading away.

That was the last Frank saw of his little brother.

But that was not the reason why he lost Joe. It was a series of deliberate choices that he and Dad made later that sealed Joe's fate. They had been overly confident of their own abilities, and his little brother paid the price for their pride.

If he could ever turn back the clock, he would never have made those choices. He would be the selfish bastard that let the world burns as long as he could have his brother with him… he would… he would…

Perhaps…

But Joe was not dead. His little brother was just… lost. And he would find him, no matter the time, and no matter the cost.

He promised he would never let his brother down again. And Joe would be depending on him…

_'You have always come through for me, even if it might take a while at times, but at the end of the day, you never let me down. I know that I can always depend on you no matter what…' Joe said._

"It might take a while, brother, but I'll find you," Frank swore. "I'll always find you…"

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

1 - I understand that the way I write Frank may not be to the taste of some. As a matter of fact, the way I write some stories is clearly not to the taste of some. But these are MY stories. I worked hard at them, and worked hard at improving. They are written for friends, posted here for FREE, and you are NOT obliged to read them if you don't like it. And you certainly do NOT have to be mean and nasty about it. That offending review have been removed for obvious reasons.

2 - Prank, so sorry you saw those emails. Yes, they are nasty. I never believe in cyber-stalking until those. And thanks.

3 - Gom, there's nothing to apologize for. You requested for that particular Frank-breakfast scene and I wrote it. It was for you, and as long as you like it, that's all that matters.

5 - Franknjoe, I wish I can claim credit for Mackinder's Heartland Theory, but it's Prank's suggestion.

6 - Thanks very much for leaving a line. Unfortunately, I cannot promise a good tale here, I can only say, I tried my best to string together a number of requests into a story. But I hope you'll enjoy if not the occasional blooper, then enjoy the way I wrestle to put things together.

7 - As usual, comments are appreciated, constructive criticism are treasured.

* * *

HEARTLAND

**Chapter Two**

-o-

_Almost eleven years later…_

The unsolved mystery of Joe Hardy's fate literally bumped into Arthur Gray's chest one morning on his way to work. A small-sized male of stocky build just appeared out of nowhere and crashed right into him. That man quickly picked himself up and disappeared into the perpetually moving throng of the morning subway crowd, leaving Gray staring at an A4 sized envelope with his name neatly printed on it in bold block letters.

He must be getting old and rusty Gray grimaced as he realized that he had no usable physical description of that stranger. He stared at the envelope for a moment longer before sighing heavily and opening it. He had a bad feeling about it, but his job and responsibility dictated that he should see what was in it. It was another unsealed envelope addressed to Frank Hardy. Clearly, he was meant to know what was in it. He scanned the contents, frowned, and continued on his daily journey to his office at his usual leisurely pace. Only those who knew him very well would have noted that his strides were just a little wider than normal.

Arthur Gray, codenamed The Gray Man, was formerly the head of a small but elite team of FBI agents known as the Network that was set up to deal with a group of international terrorists known as the Assassins. The prowess and influence of the Assassins were greatly diminished after their failed Pacific Conspiracy to blackmail the UN for ten billion dollars. The Network was disbanded and its agents re-allocated soon after that. In its place was the Counter Terrorism Unit, authorized to work independently to monitor potential terrorist activities and to safeguard the nation against terrorist threats with full cooperation from both the FBI and the CIA when required. Arthur Gray became the Director of CTU-NY. It was a sideway move rather than an upward career move. But Gray chose the position that allowed him to remain on the field rather than to risk ending up playing worthless politics and becoming a glorified paper pusher in suits.

Once in his office, Gray headed straight for his workstation. There was something he needed to check out. While waiting for his computer to boot, he checked the envelopes and note for fingerprints. As he expected, there was nothing there but his own. The CTU logo appeared on his screen. A few quick touches on the keyboard and a profile appeared. Christian Howell, or Christian 'Rocky' Howell, Gray knew, was on the wanted list on both the FBI and the CIA blacklist. It seemed that Howell's status had just been upgraded into the top twenty. Seeing that no official reasons were recorded for that upgrade, Gray entered a secondary password and his personal code to reveal another set of data that was hidden from most other agents within the bureaucracy. His eyes widened at the classified Intel that appeared on his screen that had been added starting just three days ago.

Gray sighed heavily and walked over to the office window, his mind already hard at work processing the implications of that little note and began mapping out the paths of all possible actions and its potential consequences. He had an office with a view – all most of his staff that were seated in their respective cubicles or workstation just below his office. His eyes zoomed in on a twenty-nine year old dark headed young man who just arrived – at 9:00AM sharp. Gray shook his head smilingly at that; Frank Hardy arrived at nine and left at five on the dot every working day – Frank's way of telling everyone else he did not give a damn about working extra hard for the sake of promotion. But when there were imminent threats, Frank worked twenty-four seven until the threat was contained or neutralized – everyone knew Frank Hardy cared about innocent civilians. Frank, despite his comparative youth, was the best Intelligence Analyst and Terrorist Profiler on the team. Everyone on his team knew, though only a handful would publicly acknowledge that. There was just too little room at the top of the pecking order. Too bad Frank Hardy was not interested in climbing the ranks; he could have gone far and high. In fact, Gray admitted, the only reason why he even got Frank working for him was because of Joe. Frank Hardy was here for the access to the best of CIA's and FBI's Intel databases and information gathering networks. Frank was here to use those networks to find out all he could about Christian 'Rocky' Howell and his known associates; he was here to use those to track down Rocky, to find out what happened to his younger brother.

"Ah Joe, even in death you attract trouble," Gray muttered under his breath. He never believed that Joe survived back then, and he had learned never to mention that before either Frank or Fenton.

He knew about what happened back then, and the six months of intense search by the desperate and guilt-stricken father and elder son that ended outside the newly collapsed coal mines in the cold icy mountainous region of Siberia. Neither could accept the evidence before their eyes, and both had insisted that all they had were hearsay on slave traders who were rumored to have purchased a young blond headed blue eyed civilian American…

There was no question that Gray always liked and preferred the elder Hardy; he had seen Frank's potential and planned to recruit him ever since they met during that attempted assassination on Senator Walker. Fenton Hardy was organizing Walker's security then, and his sons were targeted by the Assassins, Gray recalled. It was Joe's girlfriend who was killed in their place. Frank was intelligent, cautious, methodological, and cool under fire – all the qualities he looked for in his best agents. Most importantly, Frank Hardy had the integrity and the strength of will to break ranks and then fight for what he believed in. That placed him a level above the best agents. Men of principles with the guts to stand by them were rare and few in between in his line of work. When Joe was around, he knew he had no chance of recruiting the elder Hardy. Then Joe 'disappeared' and he enticed Frank into his service by offering him access to the national intelligence network, and the right to lead all cases related to Rocky Howell. He had hoped that one day Frank would come to consider the possibilities of working for the State. The country needed people like him.

And now there was this note, Gray sighed heavily. The note was not proof that Joe Hardy lives. Still, if there was even a microscopic chance that the kid was still alive today…

That brought him back to his current conundrum. Gray carefully considered his next moves. Gray knew he owed it to Frank Hardy to tell him about the note. Frank had come through for him too often in the last five years; he should not keep something this personal and important from that young man. Then again, there _were_ questions that he, as head of CTU-NY, needed answers to for the sake of national security. His bureaucratic rationale safely in place, Arthur Gray reached for his intercom to issue a series of instructions to his personal secretary before calling Frank Hardy up to his office for a personal chat.

-o-

It started off as another typical day, Frank Hardy mused. But fate clearly had other plans.

He was awoken by the cries of his seven months old daughter at six in the morning. Like every morning since the birth of their second child, Frank removed the pre-prepared breast milk that Callie left in the fridge for him and set it to warm in the food warmer. In the meantime, he changed the soiled overnight nappies, and played with little Iola for a short while before feeding her the nice warm milk and returning little Iola to her cot with a little cuddly toy. Then he would poke his head into little Joe's room, making sure that his four year old son was still soundly asleep before returning for his half hour snuggle in bed with his beloved wife. He took the morning shift to feed his daughter so that his wife could sleep in a little. Poor Callie was always exhausted by the time he got home every day. Four year old Joe was a handful, probably inheriting not only the name, but also his uncle's temperament, and baby Iola was just so small and demanding. At half past seven, both Frank and Callie would drag themselves out of bed. Callie would head down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast while Frank readies himself for work. He would be out of the house by eight for that hour long journey to his office.

Then his thoughts shifted towards more serious matters.

As the express train that he was on raced towards New York City, Frank Hardy took the time to review his life. He was tired, and he was getting nowhere. Not in his career – he could have easily moved up the ranks if he wanted to. God knows Gray had been pushing him about it. He was just not interested. All he wanted was to run a detective agency with his brother. And he was still hanging on to that dream. All he had to do was to find Christian 'Rocky' Howell.

'You're deluding yourself,' his little logical demon of reality yelled into his mind as it did every day. Frank swept that little demon aside with practiced ease. Once he believed his brother ran away from home, but the reality was that Joe was abducted. And once he believed his brother was into and peddling drugs, and again the reality… Frank shoved those hurtful memories aside. This time, he refused to believe Joe was dead despite the logical deductions and circumstantial evidences. He would not give up until he found Joe or else see his brother's body with his own two eyes.

So Frank chose to focus on the only link he had left to Joe. Rocky was the man who helped kidnapped Joe, the one who was in charge of guarding him, and the man who smuggled him out of the country and according to hearsay, eventually sold him into slavery. Despite his best efforts and all the resources of CTU-NY, Rocky still eluded him. There was a number of times that he thought he might have caught him, but somehow Rocky always managed to stay one step ahead, Frank conceded rather glumly. If not for the lack of any evidence, physical or circumstantial, Frank Hardy would have sworn that Rocky had inside help. Still, there had been no reported activity by Howell or any of his known recent associates for almost eighteen months now. Frank could not help but wonder what Rocky was up to. He did not believe that Rocky retired. A leopard do not change its spots and Rocky was more likely than not to be up to something. If the national Intel network was not picking up anything, then Rocky had to be currently operating overseas, Frank concluded logically. That means he would most probably have to change his base of operations. Gray would not be happy if he resigned, Frank knew. Still Gray had always known what his priorities were.

Then again, he had accumulated almost three months worth of annual leave. Perhaps he should use that for a short holiday with his family while he contemplated his next move. Yes, Callie deserved a holiday and he needed a break to recharge his batteries. Between the demands of his job, his personal mission to find Rocky, and occasionally helping out his Dad over the last six years, his brains were good as fried. Frank knew well enough that working himself to death would not help Joe. He would have a discussion with Callie tonight, and apply for his leave tomorrow. His decision made, Frank felt better. For the first time in many months, there was a light spring to his steps when he got off the train and walked towards his office.

Once at his personal workstation, Frank put down his briefcase and quickly scanned through the contents of his office 'in-tray' while waiting for his computer to boot. On his table were several framed photographs of his family. There was one of Callie, one of his parents, and several of his children. He was one of the few people here with a family. It shows what type of people get into this line of work, and Frank had no intention of becoming one of them. He wanted a normal and contented life, and would return to that as soon as he found the answers he needed. He reached out for the final photograph on his table that was not in a frame. The photograph was old and faded, an indication of how often it had been touched and held and valued. There were several faint spots on it, marks that were left behind by tears that fell on it occasionally. The photographs showed two smiling faces, two happy teenage boys with their arms around each other with the Eiffel Tower in the background. It was the last good photograph he took with Joe. It was taken during that rare family vacation to Paris, Frank remembered with a sad smile. Then, as he did every day, he held that photograph over his heart for several seconds, and repeated his promise to his little brother.

'_It might take a while… but I'll find you, Joe. I'm not letting you down again, ever. You know that, don't you, little brother? I'll find you…_'

It was a daily ritual, a daily reminder. It was the few seconds every day that he allowed himself to remember and to miss his brother. In that short moment, he allowed himself to grieve and to hurt. Then he returned the photograph back to its special little corner of his table, ready to start his daily grind through the piles and piles of information that was sent his way.

His intercom rang. It was Gray, and the boss wanted him up in his office. Frank turned his face up towards Gray's window to give a physical nod of acknowledgement before logging off his computer and heading up the metallic stairwell. He studiously ignored all the curious stares coming his way. It was a known fact that Gray wanted him as his successor, and that kind of preference generated a certain amount of jealousy and envy amongst some of his co-workers despite his attempts to show them that he was just not interested in climbing up the ranks. He lifted his arm and gave the door in front of him two hard raps.

"Come in, Frank," Gray called out, and then gestured for Frank to take a seat. "How are Callie and your newborn?"

"Callie can't wait to get back to work in five months time. Said the days are all too long with the kids," Frank answered with a laugh. "And Iola's now seven months; she's now crawling all over finding all sorts of niches and corners in our house that even I had no idea exist!"

Gray chuckled. "I see fatherhood agrees with you."

"It's a wonderful experience," Frank replied. "And I highly recommend it."

"There are some people in the world that would make terrible fathers, and I'm afraid I'm one of those, Frank," Gray replied in a light and careless tone.

But Frank did not miss that little hint of regret there, and knew that there were times when the seemingly work-orientated anti-terrorist hardliner wondered what it would be like to have a family and a child of his own. Frank knew that Arthur Gray sacrificed his own chance for that kind of personal happiness for his country. For that, Gray had his respect. Frank may not have agreed with Gray's choice of actions some of the times, but he respected the man for standing by his beliefs, and for his sacrifices.

"Fatherhood is about sacrifices. It's about giving up what was valuable to you, and giving it to your child. It's about giving up your leisurely Friday romantic eat-outs because your newborn needed to be fed every two hours. It's about not watching your favorite football team play to spend time entertaining your child and hearing him laugh. It's about not going for that longed for Europe vacation so that the money can go into your child's schooling funds," Frank commented with a smile on his face at the memory of this morning. "It's about waking up at six to take care of the baby so that your wife could sleep in a little longer and feel more rested… and for the record, I happen to believe that you would make an excellent father, if you care to try."

"Why, thank you, Frank."

Gray was clearly uncomfortable around this topic, which was also why Frank liked to talk about it. And there was this woman currently working here that was clearly head over heels in love with Gray.

"Frank…"

Something in Gray's tone set the hair at the base of his neck tingling.

"About Joe…"

"My brother is still alive," Frank cut in flatly and stood up, ready to leave. "And I am _not_ interested in your position."

It was not the first time Arthur Gray tried to convince him to seriously consider the bureaucracy for a career path, stating clearly that he personally do not believe that Joe was still alive.

"Sit down, Frank," Gray muttered tiredly. "About Joe… would you be able to recognized his artwork if I were to show you a sample?"

"I… I think so," Frank stuttered as the inkling of where Gray might be trying to tell him seeped through.

"Think so?" Gray queried.

"I don't have a lot of experience with art and with Joe's works," Frank admitted honestly as he sat back down. "We only found out about his talent a few months before… before…" Frank closed his eyes as he remembered with much regret how little attention he and his parents paid to Joe's 'talents'. Joe was always drawing, but they all only saw how bad Joe's grades were at Bayport High. It took an outsider, Mr. Pan, to show them how gifted Joe was in the Arts.

"What is your opinion regarding this?" Gray asked as he handed Frank an old and yellow piece of paper.

Frank took it carefully and felt air whooshed out of his lungs as soon as his eyes landed on the drawing. It was of him, and he had seen it before. The drawing was a rougher sketch of the version that was gifted to him so many years ago. It was a sketch of him curled up in his favorite couch reading a book with a contented happy expression on his face. Frank's eyes started to blur, and he wiped away the tears before any could land on that old and yellowed piece of brittle paper. He would not risk any damage to the first hard piece of evidence to his brother in a decade.

"This was a rougher version of one of the three drawings Joe did for me for my eighteenth birthday. Where did you get it from?" Frank demanded to know.

"Frank, the paper is so old it's brittle. We have no idea how old it was and under what condition was it kept. This piece of work is not evidence that Joe lives," Gray reminded gently.

"But the person who had this was in contact with Joe at least once at some point in time in the past. And it was clear that whoever had this took great care of it. It was crumpled for a while, and then he or she took the effort to flatten it out, probably by putting it between the leaves of a very thick and heavy book. He or she would know something about my brother…" Frank quickly and selectively analyzed the paper in his hand while ignoring the age of the paper. "Tell me how you got your hands on this… please?"

"A man bumped into me this morning and left me this. Now, _my_ question is: why did he or she choose this moment in time to hand this to _me_. I would like to hear your opinion on it." Gray said and handed him an envelope.

Frank almost snatched that envelope out of Gray's hand. He forced himself to calm down, and reached deep within himself for the cool and calm demeanor for which he was known for. Even so, his hands shook as he took the envelope from Gray's outstretched hand. Frank took a moment to examine the envelope. It was a standard A4 envelop that could be bought from any stationary store. He noted the name GRAY MAN printed clearly in bold letters. Within that first envelope was another A5-sized envelope with his name printed in bold letters. It was clearly and intentionally left unsealed, indicating that the person had intended for Gray to see its contents. The note within was also printed in bold letters:

_Be in front of Crazy Horse Bar in Patpong at 2300 hours on Songkran. Wear a number 25 Liverpool top and a pair of dark blue Levi jeans. Will trade information on Joseph Hardy for information on Christian Howell._

"Patpong is a well-known red light district in Bangkok, the capital city of Thailand," Gray supplied the information helpfully. "Songkran is the Thai New Year festival, and that is in four days' time."

Which did not give him much time to prepare at all, Frank realized. Bangkok was halfway round the world from New York City, and it would take him almost a day to get there by plane. He could not even be certain if he could get the tickets, given the timeframe he had. He would probably have to pay through his nose for a business class or a first class ticket, Frank concluded. But he was sure Callie would understand the necessity of that expense…

"Frank!"

He blinked. Gray sounded really exasperated. It took him a while to remember the question Gray asked of him.

"There are a lot of questions to be asked with answers that we can only speculate on. Why was the note given to you instead of me? Why now? Why meet halfway round the world at that particular location and time? Who is the person behind this, and what is his or her interest in Howell? Finally, what is the connection to Joe? What and how much does he or she knows about my brother?" Frank listed out the questions methodologically before proceeding to offer some plausible answers.

"I think we can safely say that the perpetrator knew that I have been following Howell for a long time because of Joe. The note was handed to you because the perpetrator wanted you to know about this proposed trade of information. 'Why?' is the interesting question; since what I have access to was also available to any law enforcement agency in the country, there is only one other possible reason why the note was handed to you: Classified information on Howell," Frank raised his brow at his boss. "Is there?"

Gray smiled. "Howell was just given the bump-up to top twenty most wanted-list with both the CIA and FBI with no official reason given. I'll get to that later. Now, what are your guesses to the rest of your questions?"

Frank shrugged. "It could be any number of reasons, Gray. Maybe it's for the sake of a neutral ground far away from the US. Or maybe the location is the perpetrator's home-ground. I have even less idea what his or her interest in Howell will be. It could be personal vengeance… or perhaps Howell just stole something that the perpetrator was interested in?"

"Take a look at this," Gray turned his LCD flat panel around so that Frank could see it.

Frank quickly scanned through the information on Gray's monitor. He paled the moment he finished the list. The series of thefts and items taken over the last seven days across the various states was mind-boggling.

"Yes," Gray confirmed. "If you traded away that information for information on your brother, we're talking potential treason."

Frank sank back into his seat his shocked brains were still trying to figure out what to do next.

"How the heck did Rocky do it?" Frank gritted out. "And what were the CIA and Pentagon doing and thinking those last few day? Why didn't they send out a nationwide alert?"

"Bureaucracy and their fear of embarrassment and potential mass panic or outrage," Gray grimaced. "Furthermore, until two days ago, all the items looked fairly innocent though costly. I am guessing that it was the theft of the enriched plutonium and the Kreiger Triggers that put all those little items into context for those Pentagon fools. And that was what finally pushed them to act…"

"Yeah, by that tiny meaningless act of pushing Howell up into the top twenty wanted list. What about those stolen items, how are they tracking them?" Frank ranted out his frustrations and fury.

Again, Frank felt like he was being torn in half. It happened before and was happening again. A part of him knew whatever Howell had planned was big, and that he as the unofficial 'Howell-expert' should be here helping the case since it looked like thousands of lives could be at stake. Another part of him wanted to ignore what he just read and go ahead with his plans to fly down to Bangkok as soon as he got his tickets.

Frank looked down at the old drawing in his hand and knew how he would choose this time. He would not repeat his mistakes of the past. He had four days to figure out how to conduct the information trade without giving away any potentially treasonous information. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to Gray, hoping that his boss would understand. "I would like to take a few days off, sir."

When Gray did not response immediately, Frank was prepared to tender his resignation there and then on the spot. A sharp rap on the door kept him quiet a little longer. Gray's secretary, Marissa Dubois, entered the room and handed several sheets of printouts to Gray and left. Frank waited respectfully as Gray scanned the contents of the printouts.

"This is your flight itinerary to Bangkok. You'll be flying first class since all business and economy class tickets are sold out because of the Songkran festival celebrations. Your flight leaves tomorrow night. You will be staying at the Dusit Thani Hotel, which is just a fifteen minute walk from Patpong. That should give you a day to scout out your surroundings before meeting your contact at eleven," Gray said handing him the printouts.

"Gray…" Frank wanted to argue that it was not right to use CTU's resources for a clearly personal matter, but Gray cut him off.

"No, listen to me on this one, Frank," Gray almost pleaded before adopting a more authoritative tone and continuing. "The timing of this note indicates that whatever the person wants is connected to those series of thefts. So I am authorizing you to go to that meeting to find out who this mysterious third party is, what are his motivations and objectives, and whether he constitutes a national security threat. You are authorized to use the classified Intel I just showed you, _but_ you better had something good to show if you do. Is that clear?"

Frank stared at Gray opened-mouth for a while, too stunned to speak. He knew what Gray just did for him. Given the sensitivity of the items stolen by Howell, his meeting with the unknown contact could be construed by some as potential treason even if he gave nothing away. It was a risk he was prepared to take. But Gray's actions had given him the bureaucratic legitimacy to go to the meeting.

"Yes, and thank you," Frank answered gratefully.

"You may spend the next hour on my computer memorizing the necessary details. Then take the rest of the afternoon off. You might want to discuss the situation with your father, see what he has to say. And I expect a short report on your plan of action in my inbox before you leave on your flight tomorrow night," Gray added before heading out of his room. "I have other things to do right now… and oh, please send Fenton my regards…"

The door closed, leaving Frank alone in the room. He sat down on Gray's chair and was about to start work when the door opened again.

"And Frank – do be careful. We still have no idea as to why you have to go all the way to Bangkok. I do want and expect my best agent back here in one piece."

And Gray was gone again.

Frank Hardy smiled as he worked. Arthur Gray, for all his brusqueness, did care.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Thanks Red, Polaris, Josie, Franknjoe, and Ms Fenway. I'm glad you enjoyed the previous chapter.

Ms Fenway: I love your reasoning, and you're right, what other reasons or excuse is needed for Joe to be alive?

Red: Thanks for the very encouraging lines. LOL - I know you love polished stories. But I think you also know my penchant for trying out styles and techniques. I am still experimenting, trying to find something I am comfortable with. So yes, I am trying yet another style with this one.

Franknjoe: again your comments have me in stitches as I tried to visualize that scene with Gray. Can I entice you to try your hand at comedy/humour. Very few people can do that well, and there are far too many angst/fluff, and too little for funny pieces here. As you know, I loved your Past Returned, and the ending was just great.

Polaris: You have to thank Tukkie. Writing the hidden human side of Gray is his request.

Josie: Thanks D And I do like the image of Frank as a father trying to handle a little Joe... As for Gray, I'm a hopeless romantic... After his years of faithful service to his country, I think he deserved what every man would have wanted - a family and home to call his own.

I hope this is just as enjoyable.

* * *

HEARTLAND

**Chapter Three**

-o-

"Dad, it's time to go," Frank Hardy called out to his father as he slipped on the bright red Liverpool top with the number '25' printed clearly in white.

The digital clock on the side of the king-sized bed read 10:15PM, then 10:16PM.

Fenton Hardy remained seated in the comfy armchair staring blankly out of the window into the murky darkness. Frank took a moment to observe his father from where he stood. At that point in time, the old man slumped in that armchair was not the father he knew while growing up. The hair, once a rich brown was now grey and dull. The eyes were deeply shadowed, while the deep creases now permanently etched across the face tells its own tale of sorrow. That man looked in his mid sixties, though Frank knew his father was only fifty-five.

"Dad," Frank repeated softly as he laid a gentle hand on his father's shoulder. "It's time."

Fenton glanced at the clock, nodded his head slowly in acknowledgement, and then quietly headed towards the wardrobe. Frank watched with worry in his eyes, feeling the weariness pouring out of his father in waves. He wondered if it was the right decision to let his father come with him. Then again, there was no way his father would have agreed to stay behind.

"I see you found the Liverpool shirt," Fenton commented as he pulled on a pale yellow polo top.

"Not really. But the seller assured me that this is 'top quality imitation' and no one can tell the difference," Frank said rather candidly and then told his dad about his little 'adventure' with the dark-skinned and wiry seller he met on Silom Road earlier in the day while he was scouting the new and unfamiliar surroundings. The overly friendly seller had been more than happy to pocket the twenty US dollar note, and had thrown in a number of gossips for the bargain. Liverpool was apparently the name of an English soccer club that was popular with the older generation of Thais. The younger Thais were ardent supporters of another club Manchester United, or rather of 'handsome' Beckham. Frank knew he was grossly overcharged, but considered it a good trade for a crash course on the sport, the club, and player number 25. Knowledge of trivia, Frank learned over the years, could sometimes gain access to the most crucial information.

Fenton laughed, and Frank relished that sound. For that short moment, those deep lines on his father's face faded, making him looked younger. All too soon that laughter faded.

The two of them had grown closer, drawn together by their shared pain of loss, regrets, and more importantly, their shared sense of guilt. The first few years were hard, but back then they were still driven by hope and steely determination. It only got harder with each passing year. At the end of each wild goose chase, Frank watched helplessly as yet another part of his father faded away. As a teenager, Frank never truly understood why his father always said that missing person cases are the hardest and the most heart-wrenching. Now he did. Not knowing what happened to a loved one is a kind of slow death. Your life literally stopped moving forward while all energy was inevitably drawn towards that gnawing desire to know what happened. Everyday you were pulled in multiple directions by the powerful yet conflicting demands of hope, fear, and despair. Over time, the intensity of those emotions eventually wears you out, leaving behind a heavy sense of weary resignation and an underlying cruel thread of hope that refused to die no matter what.

"We'll find Joe, Frank," Fenton told him in a confident voice. "And we'll bring him home."

"Yes we will," Frank answered clearly and brightly, using the vibes from his voice to hide the concern in his eyes. Fenton might sound like he was convincing his son, but the father was really trying to convince himself that he would see his younger son again one day.

"Come, son. I'm ready. Let's hit the streets," Fenton said.

Together they walked out of their hotel room. A blast of hot arid air greeted them as they exited the clean and cool comfort of The Dusit Thani Hotel into the real Bangkok. Warm breeze carrying the smell of car exhaust continually caressed their faces, while the continuous purring of car engines from the infamous Bangkok traffic jams whispered the warm welcomes incessantly into their ears.

Frank squinted against the bright glare of the neon lights that was exacerbated by the unnaturally hazy and dusty Bangkok air into Silom Road. It was as if he had taken an afternoon nap and awoken up into a whole new world. During the day, Silom Road is the financial heart of Bangkok. Tall and modern skyscrapers glistened under the hot afternoon sun, all boasting the names of global financial institutions. Now that the sun had set, the character of the place changed considerably, Frank noted as he lifted his hand to wipe away the beads of sweat that was already gathering at his brow. Gone were the quiet and dignified men and women dressed in expensive branded suits carrying leather briefcases. The place literally comes alive with all sorts of people from all walks of life all out for a good time.

It might be night in Bangkok, Frank mused as he slowly forged a path towards Patpong. But here on the crowded pavement, it was hard to tell unless one looked straight up into the night skies. Bright lights from the shops and the colorful advertising signs lit up the streets as brightly as if it was day. Yet not so bright enough as to reveal the grime and dirt that caked the narrow pavements where locals and tourists alike squeezed pass each other with friendly smiles plastered to their faces. Teetering precariously on the edge of the unevenly paved sidewalks was a series of makeshift stalls piled high with a wild assortment of goods to tempt the evening crowd.

Caught between the throngs of excited tourists, the aggressive stall owners hawking their wares and the rest of the local crowd, the two-hundred meter walk to Patpong felt like a two-mile trek. That journey was not helped by the fact that it was Songkran.

Frank grunted as yet another water bomb, little plastic bags filled with water, smacked loudly onto his broad shoulder and burst, the water soaking through his already wet top and flowing in trickles down his arms.

"Happy Songkran!" Someone yelled at them in Thai-accented English.

That was one hard hit, and Frank acknowledged the sympathetic glance his father sent his way. The helpful hotel staff had warned them about the water throwing aspect of the festival. Traditionally, Songkran was a time for the family to get together. The elders would then sprinkle holy water from the 'Wat' (Buddhist temple) on the juniors blessing them for the coming year. Recently, it degenerated into indiscriminate water throwing that proved highly popular with tourists, who flew in annually from as far as Europe and the United States. The culture was forgotten in the midst of valuable tourism revenue; the age old traditions sacrificed in the name of fun. A 'fun' that neither he nor his father could fully enjoy at the moment.

Soon the infamous Patpong loomed before them. Contrary to the notoriety of its international reputation, Patpong is a small place comprising of just two little 'sois' (little streets) joining Silom Road to Surawongse Road. It was the mish-mash of people, loud noises, businesses, and overly bright lights that made the place feel bigger than it is. Bright and multicolored neon signs were stacked crazily one atop the other. Girls wearing heavy make-up tottering on incredibly high heels hugged the sidewalks. The air was warm and stuffy, yet something heady permeates the entire gaudy atmosphere. Something in the air that beckoned seductively: _welcome to Patpong, the sinful heart of Bangkok, the City of Angels, where all your darkest desires can be fulfilled for the right price, where there's something for everyone, especially for you…_

_Do you really have what I want? Tell me how to find Joe, and I will gladly pay whatever price you ask for…_ Frank could not prevent his treacherous heart from wondering and answering. An involuntary shiver ran through him as he thought he felt something brushed against his ear and a soft husky voice cackled: _deal… _

He swiveled around and saw nothing but the tourist crowd having a good time. Still, his heart pounded…

"Frank? Are you all right?" That was his father's voice, and he turned back to see his father staring rather curiously at him.

"I'm fine," he finally answered after making a few more scans of his surroundings and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. "It's just that for the slightest moment, I felt like…" he shook his head and chuckled, a little embarrassed that he let his imagination got away from him. "I felt like…"

"You felt like you just made a deal with the devil," Fenton finished for him and Frank stared at his dad, surprised.

"I know what you mean," his father continued with a reminiscent smile. "There's something about this place that just seems to draw you in, that tempts you into wanting to try things that you normally wouldn't, by promising that you could get away with those sins if you try them here."

"You've been here before," Frank commented.

Fenton nodded. "I was here to assist the Interpol with one of the largest international jewel heist of the decade. That case was never officially solved and was unofficially closed. It was one of the reasons why I eventually stopped working for Interpol. All those international politicking; the people were always more interested in how their image on the international front rather than solving the actual case. That was about twenty years ago…"

Then Fenton's voice faded off and a faraway look entered his eyes; and Frank knew that his father was again thinking of Joe. Twenty years ago, Joe was still with them, a happy eight year old clambering innocently from room to room leaving behind a trail of destruction to mark his path around the house…

He forcibly pushed those images to the back of his mind. Twenty years ago, he and Joe played Batman and Robin. Ten years ago they discussed their plans to open their own detective agency. Now, he and Dad really needed to focus on getting to that bar and mentally gearing themselves to meet and deal with that unknown contact.

"This is it," Frank stated firmly as he spotted the big and pink neon sign that read 'The Crazy Horse Bar'.

Then it was 11:00PM.

The Hardys waited, masking their impatience by observing the activities of the tourists around them and listening in to their conversations when they could. Apparently, that bar was apparently known for its sizzling sensual performances and gravity defying acrobatic sexual feats – or so they heard the excited chattering from the awe-struck Americans who were just making their way out of the main door.

"You are Frank Hardy."

The voice, though soft, was deep and carried easily over the noise of the crowd. Frank turned around and found himself face to face with a dark skinned stocky young Thai man about his age. He was about five foot seven, taller than most of the natives Thais. The black T-shirt was tightly stretched across the chest and torso, showing a well toned body. The eyes were dark and piercing, it looked far too old on that seemingly youthful face. Other than that, he looked ordinary, just like Gray, Frank could not helped that instinctive comparison.

"If you will walk with me, we will talk in a more conducive environment," the unknown man said before turning and walking off without giving him a chance to speak.

_His English was good, and without the typical Thai accent, _Frank noted as he followed. _His steps were light and steady; this man is a trained fighter._ He was surprised when the Thai suddenly paused. He understood when the young man turned his dark brown eyes on Fenton.

"I expect to meet you alone," the Thai man stated.

Fenton stepped forward and stated firmly. "My son is not going anywhere without me."

"This is my father, Fenton Hardy. He would like to come along, if you don't mind," Frank did the introductions and threw his father a pleading glance. _If he wants me to go alone, let me, _Frank told his father with his eyes.

But Fenton ignored his son and kept his steady gaze on the Thai, whose lips slowly curved into a soft smile, to Frank's surprise.

"I have heard good things about you. You may come along," the young Thai said before continuing on his way.

The father and son exchanged a glance, shrugged, and followed. It was not as if they were given any choice on the matter.

"How much do you know about Patpong?" The Thai asked conversationally as he confidently and smoothly weaved a path through the crowd.

_How on earth did he do that?_ Frank wondered as he watched the crowd seemingly part before that Thai man. "Nothing much beyond the fact that this is a well-known red light district," Frank confessed.

"Patpong caters mainly to the foreign and expatriate crowd. As you can see, Soi Thaniya, which we just passed is full of expensive bars with young and pretty Thai hostesses. They cater exclusively to Japanese men. And this particular Soi," the Thai man said as he turned into a marginally quieter side street, "caters exclusively to… men."

"So it does," Frank murmured, feeling a warm blush creep up his neck as he saw the number of appreciative and suggestive glances being sent his way. _That man is trying to unsettle me_, Frank noted as he spied that Thai's sly little smile at his discomfort.

"And here we are…"

Hidden between two rowdy pubs was a tiny little alley. At the end of the alley was a little door. Beyond that door was a series of narrow and rickety steps. Up those steps was a narrow corridor, and at the end of that corridor was a set of intricately carved teak double-doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl that glimmered mysteriously in the flickering candle light.

Three sharp raps and the double doors opened inwards.

A man dressed in traditional Thai outfit greeted them in Thai, and then led them up another flight of stairs to a traditionally decorated private room. Interestingly, no names were mentioned, Frank sighed inwardly and hid his frustration behind a polite smile.

They sat down on the floor at the low table set up by the large and breezy windows. Looking up, Frank saw the shadowy outlines of several tall buildings. Looking down, he saw the reveling crowd five storeys below. Somehow, the noise from the crowd did not reach them. What a place this was! Private and quiet with a perfect view of the madding crowd…

"Don't you wish sometimes that you are one of those ordinary people down there who lived just for the moment? Look at how happy they are, uncaring and unaffected by the powerful undercurrent of bigger events churning around them…" the Thai said almost wistfully.

"Sometimes, one is not given that choice," Fenton answered firmly. "I for one prefer to live with the truth."

The Thai eyed them seriously for a moment, and gestured almost imperiously with his right hand. A man appeared out of the shadows and proceeded to draw the thick drapes across the windows before fading quietly back to into the shadows. The mood in the room changed instantly from serene tranquility to dead serious. It was time for business.

"You sent us a note stating that you have information on my brother, Joe," Frank made the first move. "And you sent along a drawing. I need to know where you got that drawing from."

"Joe drew it and gave it to me."

The answer hits them like a ton of bricks. This Thai seated across from them at the table claimed to know Joe Hardy personally.

"How do we know if you are telling the truth?" Frank demanded to know, fighting hard to keep the hope from his voice. _Please don't lie to us about something like this… it would be far too cruel…_

"That last morning, Joe cooked breakfast. Two sunny side ups, several pieces of bacon and toasts. Then he gave you a belated graduation gift. He gave you The Heartland. He also promised to show you the difference between dry and dry, which he never had the chance to."

The answer was more detailed than he expected. Frank closed his eyes and ignored the questioning glance from his father. The Heartland. That was his secret. It was Joe's last gift to him. He did not want to share it. So he did not tell anyone, not even his parents.

"Is he still alive? Do you know where he is now?" Fenton cut in, the desperation and hope tightly leashed in his tight voice.

Something dark and intense flickered in the Thai's eyes. It passed too quickly for Frank to decipher. Whatever it was affected him deeply, for he took a while to respond to his father's questions. When he spoke, the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable. "I do not know where Joe is now."

_Was that sincerity real, or was it something he pretended to feel? Still, this man was the last person they knew with direct contact with Joe, surely he could give them new leads… _Frank Hardy reminded himself with forced optimism. He could see the disappointment in his father's eyes for the briefest moment before it was once again replaced by grim determination.

"I can tell you what I know about Joe," the Thai continued. "But I need you to do something in return."

Frank took a deep breath. This was it, he thought as he mentally geared himself for the trade. First, he needed to find out more about this person in front of him. He opened his mouth, but the Thai beat him to it.

"You may call me Din."

_Which was probably an alias_, Frank thought. "You mentioned in your note that you wanted information on Howell. Why? And who is that information for?"

"Actually, I am not interested in whatever you have for me on Howell," Din confessed to Frank's and Fenton's surprise. "What I wanted was to meet you, and…"

"I have spent the last ten years searching for my son," Fenton gritted out in a slow and measured voice. "I followed every single inconsequential clue that landed on my lap, chased them all to a dead end. I am now an old man. I am tired and out of patience for worthless games. Tell us what you want from us and you better make sure whatever you have on Joe is worth our long flight here."

Din acknowledged Fenton's warning with respectful tilt of his head. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a tiny memory card, one that could fit comfortably into a digital camera, and placed it on the center of the table.

"I want you to take this back to Gray Man."

"What is in it?" Frank asked as he eyed that little chip suspiciously.

"Information," Din said, and to Frank he looked suddenly weary. "And part of it is related to what Howell stole over the last two weeks."

"Why Gray Man? Why me?" Frank asked – he was genuinely curious, and his gut instincts were screaming at him to be very careful. "And why Bangkok?"

"I cannot say I like the Gray Man, but I do respect him. He is ruthless when he deemed the situation requires it. But he is one who will stand by his principles. We are passing this set of Intel to him, because currently, his principles happened to be in alignment with ours. As for you, Frank, it's you simply because I have the means to get you to come here. It is also because I know I can trust you to pass the information to Gray Man in its original form no matter what your opinion on it. And why Bangkok?" Din's tone suddenly softened. "Perhaps I have a desire to see the land of my forefathers, and to celebrate New Year with their spirits."

Then Din turned to them. "Do we have an agreement?"

"You are not Thai?" Frank asked.

"I am Thai by my ancestry and by blood," Din answered. "But not by birth."

"And what makes you think you can trust me?" Frank asked. "Why are you giving Gray this particular set of Intel, and what do you hope to achieve this act?"

"I have been following your career for the last few years. You have, shall we say, a certain reputation. And you are right to imply that we are handing over a selective set of Intel aimed at fostering a certain set of perception. But that is what we all do in this intricate game of International relations. It is up to you to figure out the missing pieces, and to use that Intel to the benefit of your country, or to its detriment. I ask for the last time, do we have an agreement?"

Frank exchanged a glance with his father before nodding. He would of course go through the memory card before turning it over to Gray. After all, Din clearly expected that of him.

"You have my word that Gray gets it," Frank confirmed. "Now, tell us what you know about Joe. How did you know him and where did you meet him?"

Din stared straight into Frank's eyes for a while. He must be satisfied with what he saw. He answered.

"In the mines, over three hundred feet underground. We were both seventeen, and amongst the handful that spoke English. We got to know each other very well over two months…"

"What mines? And where?" Fenton cut in sharply.

"Coal mines, up in the mountainous region of Siberia," Din confirmed.

"So many died in there, buried under tons of rocks and earth, never to return home, never to see or feel the sun on their faces again…" Din continued his voice soft and haunted.

Frank could feel something squeezing his heart as he listened. He remembered all too well how he stood on the ramparts above the collapsed mines straining against the strong icy winds staring down wondering if Joe was down there somewhere, wondering if he died instantly or if he was trapped knowing that he could never get out…

"You clearly got out somehow when the mines collapse. What about Joe?" Frank growled harshly, no longer bothering with basic courtesy. "Did you leave him behind to die?"

And Frank knew that he was not being reasonable. In the event of any disaster, pure survival instinct took over. He could not expect Din, or any one to think about helping others. But he did not care. It was his brother they were talking about…

"What do you know about me?!" Din lashed back, eyes flashing with barely suppressed anger and pain. "What do you know about what we lived through there. And… the mines did not just collapse. It was rigged to collapse. Firstly because the coal were almost all gone anyway. But more importantly, there was some sort of a lab somewhere down there. They collapsed the whole mine just to bury the evidence of their deeds just days before the UN inspectors were due to arrive."

Frank flinched and retreated under the intensity of Din's gaze. Din was right, he did not know. He doubt if he could ever know what his brother had gone through…

"I did not escape – none of us did. The mines' supervisor decided he could make some extra cash by selling those of us who were still fit and healthy. The sick and the weak were left behind to die. I was among those who were rounded up to be auctioned off."

"And Joe?" He was starting to get a bad feel about this…

"Joe was sick… I think that was when he knew he wasn't going to make it. That was why he did that drawing with a piece of charcoal chip… so that I could tell his family what happened if I have the chance to meet them one day…"

_No…_ Frank thought dazedly. He did not search all these years, and flew all the way here for this...

"NO!"

It was a while before Frank realized he spoke out loud. He blinked, only to find Din looking at him strangely, and then apologetically.

"No, Joe did not die down there. I'm sorry if I gave you that impression," Din said. "This is hard for me. Please be patient."

Fenton was still staring blankly at Din. He was so still and pale that for a moment, Frank feared for his father. Then he saw his father's chest moving. He reached out for his father's hands, which was icy cold despite the stuffy warmth of the room they were in.

"Dad," Frank called out softly while gently rubbing his father's hands. "Joe's still alive. I know it. I can feel it. And we'll find him. I know we will…"

Fenton slowly lifted his eyes to Frank and gave him a weak smile. "Don't worry about me, I'm fine," he said to his son before turning back to Din. "I understand. Please continue when you can."

"Joe didn't die in the mines. Someone came and bought him," Din said.

Din's announcement sent a wave of relief coursing through them, but also raises a whole lot of new questions.

"Who? Do you know who he is?" Frank asked as his father held his breath.

Din frowned and appeared to be hard at work dredging up old memories. "Not he. She. A woman. Middle-age. Wore an interesting costume, something ethnic. Well-off, confident. She spoke Russian. Short crisp sentences, like one used to giving orders. It was late when she arrived with a small group of men. She headed straight for the supervisor. She must have offered a good sum. The supervisor personally went back into the mines to get him. I saw Joe from where I was shackled when they carried him out of the mines. By then he was delirious with fever. She nursed him through the night, and left with him the next morning."

"How did you know she nursed him through the night," Fenton asked the suspicion clear in his voice.

"Who did you think carried all those buckets of water that was used through the whole night?" Din snapped back irritably. "And for your information, none of us were given the choice whether we preferred to rest or to work."

Then the anger faded. "Joe is my friend. I would have done it willingly if they had asked."

"What else do you remember about her?" Frank asked on – it had been over ten years, every single piece of information they could get on that woman was crucial. "Any thing memorable about her appearance? Any indentifying mark or scars? Names?"

Din shook his head regretfully, and Frank slumped for a moment. They had so little to work on! Yet, a tiny clue was better than nothing at all. And a middle-age woman of wealth dressed in ethnic costumes – there can't be that many such women around in that region, Frank concluded with some measure of optimism.

"Din," Fenton called out.

Din turned, and the eyes met and held.

"Is that all you have to tell us?" Fenton asked, never breaking the eye contact.

It was Din who turned away first.

"You're hiding something," Fenton accused.

"That is all I have to say," Din replied as he stood up.

A mobile phone rang.

Din answered, while Frank observed. On the surface, Din appeared calm. But Frank did not miss that joy that flared for an instant in Din's eyes before it was quickly masked. Nor did he miss the slowly rising anger that was seen clearly in the tensing of Din's stance and carriage. Then finally there was this slightly regretful tone towards the end of the call.

Din sighed heavily.

"Too late. I already made contact," Din flicked a concerned glance at the Hardys as he listened. "I believe we can trust them to pass the information over to Gray Man… All right. I will see to it."

"Change of plans?" Frank queried when Din ended the call.

"No. But I have things to do…" Din said as he turned towards the door.

"Please…" Fenton started to say as he reached out to grab Din's arm.

"Sorry, Mr. Hardy," Din cut in apologetically as he gently but firmly disengage himself from Fenton's grasp. "But that really is all I can say for now."

Turning to Frank, he said casually. "I see you found the shirt. I hope you know that it was just a reasonably good counterfeit and did not pay too much for it. Shouldn't have cost more than three US dollars…"

"I consider that I paid a fair price for it since the seller did throw in some bonus items." Frank answered nonchalantly, and then added as he sensed that Din wanted him to talk on this subject. "Like how Reina was the first really good goal keeper that Liverpool had in a long time."

Din smiled as he took out a little mirror from his pocket. He deliberately left an imprint of his left thumb before handing the little mirror over to Frank. "You know something, Frank. I think I like you. Fate willing, we will meet again in the foreseeable future. As for Number 25 Liverpool… I think Pepe Reina's one good looking Spanish guy, don't you? My advice: You really should start watching soccer. It's a much more global game than American football. The Guardian is a good place to start – they got good coverage of the game. You might also want to read the South China Morning Post or even Bangkok Post and several other English language dailies in the region. Sadly, as much as I love to stay to chat, I have to go."

_Number 25 Liverpool… why did that suddenly sound so familiar?_ Frank wondered as he racked his brains. _And is there a reason for Din to mention those papers?_

"Wait! You had that drawing for ten years. Why only contact us now?" Frank called out.

Din stopped at the door.

"Frank… I am sorry."

_Sorry? That's all you have to say? And sorry for what?_ Frank wondered.

And Din was out of the door.

"Frank! We're going to lose him if we don't leave now."

That was his father. Frank made sure the memory card and mirror was secured in his secret pocket before rushing after his father. If they could successfully follow Din, they might have more information to work with. Like who were the people Din worked for, and what were their agenda.

Tailing another person was an art-form. Both do have extensive experience over the years. Still most of their tailing experience was in Western countries, not Asia. As Din said, the crowd at Patpong was for expatriates and foreigners. Once Din left the Patpong area and moved into the part of Bangkok where the locals gather, the Hardys stuck out like sore thumbs, while Din simply melted into the local pedestrians.

Ten minutes later, both of them were standing on an unfamiliar road, desperately scanning the crowd for their quarry. They lost Din.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks Franknjoe, Twoisall and Ms Fenway. But I must also apologise. Tukkie was right that I posted the wrong file for chapter 3, which I updated earlier today. The first half was about the same, the second part between Din and Frank was a little different - what was originally posted was an early draft.

Tukkie: we're at Laura's. She set up a temporary virtual gathering place so you guys can laughed and rant over how I desperately try to fulfill all those very divergent requests in a single story.

Hope this works too. Let me know what you think.

* * *

HEARTLAND

**Chapter Four**

-o-

_Frank… I'm sorry…_

If he had no idea what that apology was for then, he certainly does now. Frank winced as he slowly picked himself up from the hard cement floor. It was a difficult task, given that he just had the wind knocked out of his guts and that his hands were cuffed behind him. He could see the blood stains on the floor, and knew it was from his split lips. His jaw hurts, though his teeth were all still intact. At least it felt that way to him.

_'Fate willing and next we meet, Din, I'm going to beat the crap out of you,'_ Frank promised angrily even as he berated himself for not being thorough enough in his background check. Inwardly, Frank had to admit a grudging respect for that Thai who had lulled him into a false sense of security by the audacious act of handing over his fingerprints. Frank ran a check through both FBI and CIA's database and came up with nothing. How was he to know that Din was on Pentagon's classified watch list?

He and his father were taken into custody as soon as they landed at JFK International Airport by a number of CIA agents, on behalf of the Pentagon, for meeting and conspiring with a terrorist. They were blindfolded and transferred to some secret location, and then separated. No calls to family or lawyers… Frank knew the drill. That was why he would never take up Gray's offer – he preferred to work in a world where even the bad guys had the right to a fair trial.

So yes, he was angry with Din, and definitely angry with himself. But he was furious with the two bullies now towering over him. Din worked for someone else, but these two were fellow Americans, and last he checked, they were all working for the same government.

"So Mr. Hardy, are you ready to talk?" The stocky dark haired guy who called himself Agent Miller asked.

Frank remained silent. He knew given the situation he was in, the more he talked, the more he was likely to incriminate himself. Not because he was guilty, but because those two morons would like choose to twist everything he say into something else. He knew Gray was expecting him at CTU, so the best he could do was to wait. He had already transmitted the most important Intel across and hoped Gray had enough time to act. His only concern at the moment was for his father.

Agent Scholes, the second man in the room, threw a number of photographs clearly taken with a long-distance lens, onto the table. Frank knew without looking what those photographs were about. It showed him and his Dad meeting Din in front of Crazy Horse Bar, their walk through Patpong, their rather cozy gathering in that exclusive men's club, and finally the window closing on the meeting.

"What's a senior intelligence officer with the CTU doing having supper with Mr. Pol Thanet halfway round the world?" Scholes asked.

_Pol Thanet… so that's his name_, Frank filed that information away for later use.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Scholes continued.

_Sure… I would love to know what your sick mind come up with…_ Frank groused silently.

"I can see from your records that you were the sole agent in charge of going after Christian Howell. Despite your very successful record in chasing down various criminals and terrorists, you failed to apprehend Howell over the six years that you had the job. Don't you find that a little… strange?" Scholes chatted on amicably. "Then guess what else I found out? Howell kidnapped your brother about ten years back, didn't he? Joseph Hardy has been missing ever since, but never formally declared dead. Now, do you know what I am getting at?"

Frank had always felt that it was strange that Howell always seemed to keep himself one step ahead. He never had the evidence to indicate that there might be a traitor in the ranks. Though now he had a good idea what was about to be piled onto his head.

"You have been helping Howell evade capture all these years because he had your brother, am I right?" Scholes asked. "And that is also how you have the list of Howell's future targets with you – so that you know what to do so that Howell could get away. You might want to know that Howell clearly did not need your help. His team successfully got away with a cache of Anthrax this morning. So you might as well spill what you know about how he's going after his next target."

Frank gasped inwardly; Gray did not time the time to act and Howell's arsenal of weaponry was growing. He turned to Scholes and glared coldly at him. "Then you guys should be out there making sure that the rest of the 'targets' well-protected rather than wasting time here. As a matter of fact, I would strongly recommend that you move those items to another more secure and secret location now."

_Since it is bloody obvious you people are incapable of protecting them at their current location,_ Frank thought but did not verbalize – there was no point in antagonizing Scholes unnecessarily.

"What how about you tell us how exactly Howell planned to conduct his next great robbery so we could lay a trap for him?" Scholes asked instead.

_Fools…_ Frank cursed quietly.

He tensed at the sound of crackling fingers in the background. From the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Miller rolling up his sleeves with a wolfish smile. Frank could see that Miller enjoys hurting people…

"And please do not take too long. As you can see, my friend here is starting to get just a bit impatient," Scholes reminded him.

Frank raised his eyes calmly to meet Scholes'. "I believe the constitution supports my right to remain silent and my right to a fair jury trial."

"Not for traitors," Miller retorted as he grabbed Frank's shoulder and slowly tightened his grip. "Now, talk!"

Frank closed his mind to everything else around him to focus solely on the pain from his left shoulder which was slowly increasing with each passing nano-second. He knew exactly what to expect. Even so, he could not prevent a sharp agonized cry when Miller gave his arm a hard jerk. Then he was again back on the cold hard floor.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Frank never thought he would ever look forward to hearing Gray's furious voice. Someone pulled Miller away from him and he slumped against the wall panting for breath as he willed his body to recover from its ordeal. Miller was good at what he did. It took a while before he recognized his father's voice anxiously asking if he was all right, and yelling at someone for the keys to his cuffs. By the time his hands were free and the pain in his shoulders faded to a dull throbbing ache, both agent Miller and Scholes were gone.

"Come on; let's get back to the CTU… _now_!" Gray said curtly, and Frank knew something else happened and that Gray wanted a briefing.

"We're sorry, but we cannot allow that," a clear voice stated.

The Hardys and Gray found their path blocked by two men in black suits.

"We're sorry, Frank. May we call you Frank?" The heavier set one with black hair and a moustache said to him in a polite tone. "Those two CIA agents overstep their bounds. They were told to bring you in and to run through several basic questions while waiting for us to arrive. Unfortunately, they went a little overboard. But given what just happened this morning, I am sure you can understand their desperation to prevent Howell from striking again. I assure you that they be suitably reprimanded. I am Adam Nashville, by the way, and this is my associate Peter Hartland."

Hartland was one skinny guy with shifty eyes half hidden behind a pair of thick tortoise-shell glasses.

_Right… sorry boys, you're lying,_ Frank thought, though he nodded in acknowledgement of that piece of bullshit. "You're with the Pentagon?"

"And you better have a very good reason why our rights were violated," Fenton growled. "Or your department's going to have the pants sued off you."

"We worked for a highly secretive department that does not legally exist in the public domain, Mr. Hardy. It would be simpler to just accept our apologies and cooperate with us," Hartland replied calmly. "We have need of your assistance, and I believe it would be in your best interest to help us."

"Why should that be?" Fenton asked in disbelief.

"Because you want to know what happened to your younger son," Nashville answered and both Hardys turned to face him. "Don't you?"

Frank exchanged a startled but grim look with his father. For ten years, no one knew anything about Joe Hardy. And now, every body seemed to be showing up offering previously non-existent information. This can't be coincidence, and this can't be good. Then again, when did Joe ever learn to avoid big troubles?

"You didn't know anything about this, do you?" Frank threw the question accusingly at Gray. _If Gray knew…_

"No, this is news to me," Gray answered calmly before turning to eye those two men curiously. "I would like to come along. As a matter of fact, given that Frank on a mission under my orders when he was detained, I'm afraid I have to insist on it."

"I'm sorry, but this is classified…" Nashville said.

Gray countered smoothly. "All the more I should be there. Frank here is one of my top agents. I will need to know what you are getting him into. I am responsible for the well-being of my men."

Fenton agreed. "I have no problem with Director Gray coming along."

As far as Fenton was concerned, it would be safer for Frank if Gray was present.

Frank noted the quick exchange between Gray and his father. He saw that flash of irritation across both Nashville's and Hartland's faces. It seemed that he was the only one in the dark about something here, Frank determined. He was not bothered by that fact; he was confident his father would explain in due time. He watched as the two Pentagon fellas made a quick call before nodding curtly in agreement.

"This way, please," Nashville beckoned all of them to follow him up the corridor and into a small conference room.

"You said you have information on my son," Fenton queried the moment the door closed and the five were left alone.

"You have to be patient, Mr. Hardy," Hartland said condescendingly. "Things are a little more complicated than you know."

"Then let me make it simple for you. Do you know where my son is, yes or no?" Fenton returned mimicking the identical air of superiority, speaking slowly as if he was talking to a five year old.

Frank noted with a little smile how Hartland's lips tightened just so imperceptibly before plastering on a grave and sympathetic expression that was as fake as the sympathy in his voice.

"Yes," the answer was loud and clear. "But perhaps you should be seated before I continue?"

Neither Frank nor Fenton liked the implication. They sat down anyway since this meeting was clearly going to take a while. Bureaucratic meetings always took a longer time than it should as the so-called managers simply enjoyed talking and showing off their supposed knowledge by piling their petty speeches with crap.

"Where?" Frank demanded to know. "And why did you wait till now to tell us about it?"

"We did not see the connection ourselves till yesterday," Nashville said. "It was your meeting with Khun Thanet that got the bells ringing for us. That was why we requested CIA over in New York to detain you as soon as your flight landed at the airport."

Hartland waved his hand, gesturing Nashville to keep quiet and let him do the talking.

"Tell me," Hartland requested. "What do you know of this country: Syrdyzstan."

Fenton leaned back into the chair and let Frank field that question. He had not heard that name mentioned in three decades, and could not help but to wonder if his past was catching up with him.

"It's one of countries in Central Asia that declared themselves independent of the USSR in the early nineties," Frank said, clearly admitting that he did not have much knowledge of that region.

Hartland nodded knowingly. "Not bad. Most Americans would not know that. Syrdyzstan was one of the smaller countries, but it was strategically located at the heart of one of the major crossroads of the old Silk Road. So you can see, this region was historically a very important area. That location is still very strategic today; the spread of the desert through its boundary, the relative tectonically stability of its lands, and its geographical location meant that it was a natural route for the building of a pipe line to carry oil between Russia and the Caspian Sea into the West. The tectonic stability made it a natural place for storage of nuclear waste. Finally, Syrdyzstan had rich minerals deposits. It is a little known fact that Syrdyzstan had the largest Uranium deposits in the world. Another highly valuable mineral of which they had significant deposits of is Coltan, which I am sure you are aware is crucial to the making of advanced electronics gadgets. That is not to mention other minerals such as gold and gems."

Frank could see Pentagon's interest in that country, but he was only interested in the connection between Syrdyzstan and his brother. His father's expression was inscrutable under the hooded eyes. The old tired man was gone, in its place the sharp and alert PI Frank had always known as he was growing up.

"Our key interest was of course to determine that Syrdyzstan never sells any of its Uranium to our potential enemies. The first few years after declaring independence, there was lot of infighting. We had little concerns over the possibility of sales of Uranium to countries like North Korea or Iran. About ten years ago, all the fighting clans started to consolidate and six years ago they finally unite under a very powerful matriarchy. The Kharazi Clan now controls the country, and the current matriarch, Tenzin Jaimye Cho Ak-Khazari, is not very friendly with the United States. Three years ago, she ordered all American businesses closed down and forcefully removed all Americans out of her country. Just over a year ago, we managed to persuade her to allow a consulate back in. But ten days ago, she literally threw him out of the country, no reason given."

Hartland paused to observe the Hardys for a moment. They seemed to be merely listening politely. That irritated him, but he continued.

"What bothered us was the fact that in the past three to four years, Syrdyzstan started to harbor terrorists on both CIA's and Pentagon's black list. Satellite photographs also started picking up worrisome activities," Hartland said as he placed several pictures on the table. "As you can see here, all these white blocks were cement structures underground. We have no idea what they were for, but the size does indicate the possibility that it was some sort of research facility, and there were dozens of them scattered across the desert. The UN inspectors had gone in twice, and both times they found nothing suspicious."

"Then perhaps you should consider the possibility that there is nothing suspicious going on in there," Frank returned politely.

"Firstly, no Americans were allowed on both inspection crews. Second, we had Intel informing us that two Russian bio-scientists were now in Syrdyzstan working for the Matriarch. Third, our satellites are picking up increased activities in those areas," Nashville stated. "These were all very worrying signs."

"I believe I've had enough of a history lesson. Just get straight to the point. What has all these got to do with my son, Joseph?" Fenton cut in, clearly at the end of his patience.

"The Matriarch is guarded and guided by five people. You can say that they were her generals, policy advisors, and bodyguards. All five played instrumental roles in her rise to power and enabling her to maintain her tight grip over all the clans, resorting to many underhanded and coercive tactics. Many were killed and murdered during those years. Recently, we have evidence that those five were starting to act against American interest, including breaking in and destroying the American embassy in Yemen. Among those declared missing and assumed dead were the eight year old twins of the former senior diplomat to Yemen. And here are the photographs of the five of them." Hartland carefully placed five more photographs on the table before settling back to observe the Hardys' reaction.

One of them, the one in the middle, was unmistakably… Joe. It was the same blood hair, though it was now longer. Laura was always telling Joe to get his hair cut and to keep it neat, Frank recalled sadly. The features were more angular, but then Joe was now ten years older. The eyes were the same blue, but was now shadowed. At first glance, his brother appeared relaxed and enjoying the festivities around him. Still, Frank noted the tension in the shoulder area that told him otherwise. The date at the bottom of the photograph said it was take three months ago, and the name...

"Until thirty hours ago, he was known to us as Jomar Al-Khazari."

Frank kept his expression bland as he gave the remaining four photographs a cursory glance. The first was a woman with rich dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and Eurasian features, hinting at mixed blood. Her name was Karanzic Ak-Khazari. The second was male, black hair with Asiatic features with the name Yeshe Al-Khazari. The male in the fourth photograph was Chinese: Zhang Jin Shui. The last photograph was Din: Pol Thanet.

_Din… Din lied_, Frank thought. _But why?_ Then he laughed inwardly, Din already answered that a part of that question: In the game of international intrigue, every one showed what was necessary to foster a certain perception. It was up to him to figure out what the rest of the puzzles were…

"Where was this taken?" Fenton choked out as he reached to take over the photograph from Frank.

"Brunei. Jomar… I mean Joseph… was escorting his mother to the Sultan of Brunei's private birthday party," Nashville answered.

"His mother?!" Frank asked, still trying to wrap his mind around all the new information coming in.

"Joseph was adopted by the former Matriarch, and renamed Jomar. Now that we know his background, we believe he was possibly re-educated and converted into one of their top agents," Nashville informed them.

Frank stared at the photograph of his brother. _That was why Joe never contacted them. Did his brother even remember him?... _

"After some background check, we believed that Joseph Hardy was targeted and chosen for his role by the former Matriarch," Hartland added before turning to Fenton showing him another photograph. "And we believed you knew her…"

Fenton felt like someone just slap him hard across his face. He knew that face all right. He would never forget that face. Thirty years ago, that young and innocent face stared up at him with all the love in her eyes and shared with him her deepest secrets. They spent a summer travelling across Europe. Then he was young and naïve; his growing hormones drove him into the world of international espionage in the dying days of the cold war. He could never forget the hurt and disappointment in her eyes when she found out who he was and what he did. He wanted her to rant and rave at him. She never did. That was what she was – dignified, royal. All she said was: _what goes around comes around. Be careful what you sow… _And then she left. He quitted the spy business soon after that, and closed that chapter to his shameful past.

"Dad… who's she?" Fenton heard Frank asked.

He shook his head and laughed softly. "Syulina… I was young and thought it cool to be a spy. I wooed her, seduced her, and betrayed her. It was the biggest mistake in my life. That was why I quitted the spy business, and that was also why I tried to discourage you and Joe from getting involved with the Network. There is no such thing as honor or glamour in that industry. Its shitty business that once had you in its claws will never let go…"

"Dad…"

"I'm not sorry I kept that from you, Frank. It was something I am not proud and I never wanted you or Joe to know about me. Your mother knows of course, I wouldn't keep such a significant event in my life to the woman I was going to marry and spend my whole life with…"

"You don't have to explain, Dad. I just need to know what is necessary so we can get Joe back…" Frank told his father.

Fenton felt both relieved and proud. Frank he knew would always rise to the occasion. And his elder son was right; their priority now was getting Joe back. Nothing else matters. He knew of course that the Pentagon people was not giving them the full story – he had enough experience with those people through the years to know how good they could be at presenting the different facets of truth just so as to the impression they wanted to attain. He wanted his son back, but he was also not stupid as to believe in everything they say. And he knew Frank already worked that out. He smiled at his elder son. Together they would navigate out of this mess.

"Which is what we wanted to talk to you about," Hartland interrupted that father and son moment.

"We're listening," Frank answered for his father.

"Joseph, as far as we know, is currently in Syrdyzstan. We would like you to travel over there to attempt a retrieval mission. We are hoping that he might remember something or just react to seeing either one of you. And we are certain any Intel he could give us would be useful," Hartland said.

Fenton kept his mouth tightly shut as he fought the urge to tell them to just -- off. He wants his son back, but he certainly did not want to involve any members of the Pentagon or any other secret organizations as a matter of fact. But given the fact that Americans were no longer welcomed in Syrdyzstan, and that he could be fairly certain that Syulina would not allow him or Frank entry, perhaps he should see what Pentagon had to offer. He nodded his head grimly. First he gets to Joe, then he worry about the rest later.

Fenton and Frank listened as Hartland and Nashville took turns outlining the covert ops to extract Joe from his adopted country, taking turns to questioned and verify the plausibility of each stage of the plan.

"I know that Joe is your son and your brother. But I must warn you to be careful. He is no longer the person you knew ten years ago," Nashville cautioned. "He was the mastermind behind some of the break-ins against several of the US bases in Central Asia, and personally broke into the embassy in Yemen. He has definitely killed before, and might not hesitate to kill you too."

"Then you don't know my brother."

"You do not know what happened to your brother, what he had become," Hartland reminded gently.

_No,_ Frank thought. _You have no idea what kind of person my brother is._

Hartland placed several more photographs on the table. "I did not want to show you this, but I need to impress on you how serious the situation is. These four photographs were taken at the no hold underground fighting circuits in Bangkok and in Manila. All five of them participated in the fights, and all came in top ten in their respective categories. Those fighting circuits were their recruitment grounds. This one was taken in Israel five years ago, Joseph was there for a month long training in Krav Maga. And finally, this one was taken by one of the security cameras in the Yemen embassy."

Frank could not miss the killing rage in his brother's eyes in every one of those photographs. He turned the photographs around, not wanting to see that aspect of Joe.

Tired, he was suddenly bone weary.

"You never saw me when I was truly angry," he rebutted Hartland.

Photographs, Frank knew, merely captured the moment that the photographer wanted to capture.

"I think we should go home. Mom and Callie would be dead worried about us by now." Frank said to his father next, who was in full agreement with him.

Turning to Gray, he said: "I might be a little late for work tomorrow. But I will be there by ten."

Gray nodded his agreement. "Take a break; I'll see you at twelve."

Finally, Frank returned his attention to Hartland and Nashville. "Don't worry – we will be at the Airbase at the appointed time seventy hours from now."

With that, he left the room and his father and Gray.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks Franknjoe, Red Hardy, Mebabs and Ms Fenway for the lovely comments.

Franknjoe - got the draft - love it! Will get back to you asap.

Red Hardy - you hit bull's eye on parts of it but way off other parts. But I'm glad you enjoyed it.

I must apologise for disappearing for a while. My little boy learnt how to climb very well, scaled my shelves and executed a perfect crash landing of my notebook. Hence I am totally cut off from the net and from my stories. I'll be going to try to persuade myself to spend on a notebook again tomorrow - please pray that I am willing to spend!!

This chapter was a quick typeup from my handwritten draft using a visiting friend's notebook, and might contain more errors than normal. Please let me know how it is, and if you still want to read on ... I'm sadly not so confident about this chapter.

For those who enjoyed the adventure so far, thanks. And special thanks to AhRed for helping smooth this chapter out. Also Laura - as you can see, I managed to include Syriana into this story (so you owe me a meal!) and modified it such that your favorite Agent Barnes and Emir Nasir survived the assassination attempt. Hope you like it and Happy Birthday!

* * *

HEARTLAND

**Chapter Five**

-o-

"Frank… Frank!"

Frank Hardy was jerked violently out of his nightmare back into awareness to find his father looking down at him with worry in his eyes. It took him a while to register the fact that they were currently on board a private jetliner headed towards Alarumqi, the capital city of Syrdyzstan. He was more tired than he thought; the last seventy hours was a whirlwind of activities, a mess of revelations and shocking discoveries that left him physically and emotionally drained. Frank struggled to get upright in the very comfortable leather seat that he had been napping in, grateful that his father did not push him for the details of his nightmare.

"Where are we now?" Frank asked as he realized that he had slept longer than expected – it was dark outside when he boarded this plane, and now the open windows were clear blue ovals.

"We should be landing in Alarumqi International Airport in two hours' time," Fenton answered.

"You should have woken me up earlier!" Frank groused as he calculated that he was knocked out for almost eight hours.

"You needed the sleep, Frank," Fenton replied calmly as he put aside the printouts he was reading. "And two hours' more than enough time for us to go through what we have."

What Dad really meant was that they had little to work with, Frank easily read in between the lines as he slowly rub his eyes and face in an attempt to clear his sleep-clouded mind.

"Why don't you go and freshen up while I prepare some coffee? Then we can get started…" Fenton suggested as he headed towards the onboard pantry and chucked two little mugs under the Saeco Royal Coffee Making Machine, looking very much at home in this elegantly furnished private flight cabin belonging to Emir Nasir Al-Subaai of Syriana.

Frank shook his head at this double 'O' seven facet of his father that he never saw as he headed towards the lavatory at the back of the cabin. He was still in awe with his father's ability to call on old contacts and pull favors when and where it matters. The Emir and this plane was their ticket in and out of Syrdyzstan legitimately, and Fenton had arranged it in less than thirty hours.

Frank whistled softly as he took in the opulence of the spacious lavatory some fifty-thousand feet above sea level. "Lifestyles of the rich and famous, or the infamous…"

The American Intelligence, Frank knew, branded Nasir Al-Subaai a dictator for overthrowing his father's regime in a successful military coup eight years ago. But currently, Emir Nasir was not only one of the richest men in the world, the Emirate of Syriana currently ranked third in terms of per capita income trailing closely behind Qatar and Luxemburg.

From the mirror, a pale tired face with dark rings circling his eyes stared blankly back at him, and he knew why his father insisted he needed the sleep. He was bushed and he looked bushed. And here alone in the privacy of the lavatory, he allowed himself to let his guard down. The reflection in the mirror now looked tired and vulnerable. That vulnerability he never showed to anyone, especially not to his family, because they needed him strong and sturdy for them.

Then, quite involuntarily but not at all unexpected, his mind drifted back to his dreams. And he stood there before the mirror, caught in the nightmarish grip of those fragments of a tragic past as a voice that he would never forget began to invade even his waking moments:

_'Choose Hardy; the location of the bombs or the location of your son…' Rocky demanded in a gloating voice._

Frank's fingers tightened on the edge of the white porcelain washbasin. He deliberately turned his eyes downward and away from the mirror. It was futile. Blurry images of the past played itself out on the gentle ripples of water that was slowly filling up the washbasin.

_Fenton Hardy stood stock-still before the speaker phone, the agony of his indecision clearly written across his face. _

_All eyes were glued to the computer screen showing a grainy image that was unmistakably Joe desperately working to find his way out of a glass cell that was filling with water. A timer on the side showed that Joe had less than two hours…_

_'We've only half an hour, Fenton. Five buildings in New York City; Tens of thousands of lives at sake here…' the FBI agent pleaded and pushed his point._

_'Sir, they're broadcasting Joe live on the net… I believe we can trace Joe's location via IP mapping…' Phil Cohen offered an alternative._

_'We have to save Joe, but we can't let all those people die either,' Frank never felt so conflicted in his life; he remembered Joe's depression in the aftermath of Iola's death. 'Joe would never forgive himself if he knows we sacrificed so many lives for him…'_

_'I'm already narrowing down on Joe's location… he's definitely somewhere on Long Island,' Phil called out as his fingers tapped furiously across the keyboard._

_'Time's up. Your decision, Hardy…'_

_There was that incredibly long second of absolute and heavy silence before Fenton finally answered. An air of immense relief swept through half of the room while the other half fought to hold back their fears and despair. 'The bombs… give me the location of the bombs…' Fenton choked out through his tears, his fingers so tightly clenched it was white and bloodless. _

_An email message appeared with the names of the five buildings. The FBI agents were already on the move. Then to their horror the computer screen went blank and the live broadcast was cut. 'I said one or the other, Hardy. Poor Joe, I wonder how he feels about your decision…' Rocky taunted before hanging up._

_The remaining eyes turned desperately to Phil, who did not disappoint them. 'I have three possible locations… all on the northern end of Long Island…' he announced. They split into three teams. Frank and Phil went for the old ranger's cabin in the protected State Park in Long Beach Bay. _

_Joe was there – and yet not there. The live broadcast was of another computer screen broadcasting live from yet another location. No wonder the broadcast quality was so grainy. The water in Joe's cell was now two-thirds full. _

_But there was another glass cell in that room, and Frank stared in horror at the sight of two girls drowning before his eyes… 'The glass is bullet proof and the girls have only a couple of minutes to live. It's your choice now, Frank. The code to the glass cell, or your brother's location?' the now much hated voice mocked from the computer's speakers. The two bodies in the glass cell spasm. Frank screamed helplessly, a knee-jerk reaction. 'The code… what's the code…'_

Frank splashed a handful of cold water over his face and closed his eyes tightly. With that, he chose the lives of two strangers over his own brother. It was a useless gesture; those painful memories continue its recall directly in his mind's eye.

_He was barely holding together by the time they all converged on an abandoned container at the Red Hook Container Terminal in New Jersey some three hours later. _

_The cavernous container unit was dark and silent. Broken electronic equipments were scattered across the wet floor. There was a note stuck to the door of the empty glass cell… _

_'Joseph should be dead by your choices. Fortunately for him, I like blondes. He's mine now, until I tire of him'…_

He cried.

Everything single emotion was still so raw, it was as if everything happened yesterday. He remembered sinking slowly onto the wet floor of the container unit as his legs gave out on him. The overwhelming sense of relief that his brother still lives was quickly drowned out by the horror and despair at the implications of that vicious note. Then there was the helpless rage and deep-seated guilt… And now, there were the implications of what Joe might have been forced to do for ten years… Frank splashed several more handful of water over his face, wetting his hair and drenching his shirt. Sadly, all the water in the world could not wash away that past. History as they say is set in stone.

Not all of that past was bad. Five buildings imploded in New York City that fateful day, leaving behind hundreds of millions in damages but no civilian casualties – the FBI managed to evacuate everyone on time. That fact did little to sooth his guilty conscience, but perhaps it might mean something to Joe later when they as a family embark on the path to healing and recovery. Perhaps even for him…

They would get Joe back; Frank never doubted that for a second despite the odds. To allow any hint of doubt would be to start the fight with the battle half lost, and Joe deserved better than that. It did not matter to him whether those decisions made all those years ago were 'right' or 'wrong', or that they were made under duress, as his psychiatrist was so kind to point out. To Frank, Joe paid the price for the decisions he and Dad made. Now, it was time for payback. The past might be set in stone, but the future was not. This time, he would not let Joe down. He would rescue his brother and then keep him safe at all cost; Joe suffered enough.

That was why they as a family had unanimously decided that they would never let the Pentagon or any branch of the American Intelligence get their hands on Joe no matter what he had done. And that, Frank knew, was definitely a 'right' decision.

With his priorities and his determination firmly in place, Frank used the face-towels to dry himself, and then tidy up the best he could before exiting the lavatory. There was nothing he could do about his red-rimmed eyes, but his father might accept that it was caused by the lack of sleep over the last few days.

Fenton was already back at his seat crouched over the table studying a map, the mug of steaming latte in the mug holder next to him.

"Why did you choose to ask Emir Nasir for help? And why was he willing to go to such lengths to help us?" Frank was curious, for what they were about to do could definitely cause a severe breach in the international relations between the two countries. _Well, actually three countries; America, Syriana, and Syrdyzstan_, Frank amended.

"Syriana is one of the few independent states that have no extradition treaty with the US. That's where we'll be taking Joe after we get him out of Syrdyzstan," Fenton answered. "Three years ago, Nasir's sons were kidnapped. I negotiated the ransom and saw to the safe return of the kids. Then I went on to discover the mastermind behind the kidnapping and quite accidentally foiled an assassination attempt by the American Intelligence. Nasir understood when I explained what happened and asked for his help…"

Frank nodded as he listened. He could accept that line of reasoning.

"Given the current ban on American visitors into Syrdyzstan, It was Nasir's suggestion that we go to Alarumqi as his business representatives and leave after two days, hopefully with Joe. But the condition is that nothing traced back to him. If we're caught, then the Emir's going to claim that we hijack his plane and impersonate his real representatives in an attempt to kidnap a 'ranking family member' of the Khazari clan..." Fenton added.

_That's fair enough_, Frank thought. _And I forgot Joe's now Jomar Al-Khazari, adoptive son of the former Matriarch and brother to the current Matriarch._ The last thing he wanted was to create any serious international breach of relations. The world has enough meaningless fighting and wars as it is.

"So just in case we blew our cover, I also arranged an alternative route out of Alarumqi. We will have to traverse a much rougher and riskier route," Fenton continued as his fingers traced a path through the mountains into Tajikistan.

Frank nodded curtly. If that happened, they might never get out of Syrdyzstan, and they both knew it. "So what exactly are our plans, Dad?"

It was a logical move for the father to be the one to plan and coordinate the rescue effort. Fenton had some knowledge of the area and the politics, and clearly had more contacts given his years of experience. Frank on the other hand, spent a day at CTU to clear up some issues with Gray and to work on the memory card. They felt that there might be some more information on Joe hidden in the eight GB of data that Din gave them. There were, but…

"Frank!"

The sharp tone brought Frank back again into his current reality. "Sorry Dad… I was distracted…"

Fenton could see that and did not want to state the obvious. More importantly, he could see how tired Frank was. His elder son had been shouldering more responsibilities than he should; Frank had taken on a job that he did not want, helped out with the family business when he could, spent time searching for his brother, and finally taking care of a family of his own. Honestly, he had no idea how Frank managed all that, but it was clear that the toll was wearing his son down. Frank needed a break, and it hurts to know that he as a father could not afford to gift that break to his elder son at this moment in time. He needed Frank's help to get Joe, simple as that.

"Dad… its okay… First we get Joe back. I can rest after that."

Fenton felt pride at Frank's declaration, but it did not make him feel better. He wondered often, why was it that he could help strangers solved their problems, and yet felt so helpless where the well-being of his own sons was concerned.

Almost eleven years ago, he failed Joe. For the last ten years, after the mines at Siberia, he blocked away all thoughts of what Joe might be going through on a daily basis. That was the only way he knew how to continue functioning and living. That way he could pretend that his younger son was just lost temporarily, and all he needed to do was to search and he would eventually find Joe alive and well. Just like what happened when his younger son was five; Joe ran away crying from him after being reprimanded for lying, and he panicked after his little boy failed to come home for tea. He had scoured the entire neighborhood, all the time wondering if he had been too harsh with his little boy. Finally, he found Joe happily playing with a stray dog in the playground. Nothing happened, Joe just forgot about the time, and the scolding too. But he still hugged Joe tightly to him anyway, so glad he was that his little son was fine…

His eyes stung and he blinked away his tears. And now, he's failing Frank too; as a matter of fact, he failed his whole family. They were breaking ranks with the Pentagon, and he knew better than anyone the potential consequences that might follow, especially now given the current political climate.

"Frank… Thanks for backing my decision regarding Joe… and I'm sorry…" He choked a little over the apology. He was sorry; he never thought that his children and his children's children would be affected by his hot-headed but short foray into the shady world of international intrigue thirty four years ago.

"Dad…"

Fenton looked up at the sound of his son's gentle but firm voice.

"I worked for the CTU. I know how terrorists, whether presumed or proven, are treated. I will never allow Joe to go through that. When we get Joe back, he will need a place to heal and recover. And we know he won't get that in a Pentagon interrogation cell or at the Gitmo," Frank said to him. "I know what I am doing, and I am willing to accept the full and legitimate consequences of my actions, but I will not accept any bullshit that the Pentagon might try to pin on me, or on us, for their international relations bloopers."

Fenton could not help a little smile as he recalled some of Gertrude's, his older sister by seven years, indignant yet darkly humorous narration of the various political bloopers whenever she stayed over at his place. Not many knew of Gertrude's stint as a student activist leader back in the seventies; even fewer knew of her continued interest in American and world geopolitics. Gertrude Hardy, as known to her closest family members and friends, was a deeply passionate person – deeply passionate about her country and her beliefs in humanity.

"More importantly, I don't trust Hartland and his secret unlisted so-called National Interest Department," Frank continued, leading his father back into the serious matter at hand. "First; it was clear that Hartland already has the extraction plan ready and was all ready to go, so why did he need us? Second; if America's really interested in the uranium, illegally abducting a 'ranking member' of the ruling Khazari clan would hardly bring us closer to that uranium. Third; they are sending in six trained covert ops specialists, plus the two of us – that's far too clunky a team. Why conduct such a costly operation when the logical move would be to just let the two of us handle it and make it a family affair rather than risk an international relations issue if caught? Fourth; there are many terrorists with far worse records out there with known locations, so why are they targeting Joe? Finally; they never offered us any concrete deal or even partial immunity for Joe if we help them. Too many things are not adding up. They wanted Joe for something else, and more desperately than they are telling us. I believe that there's a lot more happening than meets the eye…"

"That's why we have to get to Joe before they do," Fenton confirmed Frank's suspicions. _Or Joe would disappear into one of those secret prisons and they might never be able to locate him, _both of them concluded without saying it out loud.

"So what do we know about Hartland's plan?" Frank asked in a grim voice.

"The six covert ops agents will first head towards Bagram Air Base in the Pavaan province in Afghanistan. They will then travel to Kara-kol in Kyrgyzstan via a local flight. There they will meet up with the Syrdhiz rebels who will guide them across the Kzyzl-Issyuk Lake under the cover of darkness into one of the many lakeside towns in Syrdyzstan. From there they would make their way into Alarumqi and wait for the Khazari clan to make their appearance for the Annual Summer Solstice Celebrations. They would be looking for opportunity to take Joe into custody towards the tail end of the celebrations hopefully with no one wiser until the next morning, and immediately leave for Kara-kol by boat. That's tomorrow night," Fenton summarized their discussion with Hartland just seventy hours ago.

"Wouldn't Hartland change the schedule when we fail to turn up at the McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey at about… now?" Frank asked as he glanced at his watch.

"It's unlikely; they are desperate to get Joe, and it showed in their scheduling," Fenton allowed himself a little smile as he laid out the case for Frank. "They have no idea where the Khazari stronghold is. That's why they have to wait for Joe, or Jomar, to make his public appearance at Alarumqi. They can't strike later because the Khazaris will be gone and out of their reach. And they knew that we would be trying to intercept them. Finally, they can't strike more than a couple of hours earlier because following the route they have to travel, the earliest they could get into Alarumqi is tomorrow late afternoon."

"That's the timing of the abduction. But what if they changed their entry and exit routes?" Frank asked.

Trust Frank to be meticulous and detailed even when exhausted, Fenton thought. "Syrdyzstan is a harsh inhospitable land with few easy ways in or out. The northern half of the land was mainly desert-land stretching north towards Kazakhstan and Russia and run eastwards towards China. The southern half was Tien Shan mountain ranges stretching east into China and south towards Tajikistan. The western borders of Syrdyzstan hugged the coastlines of one of the largest inland freshwater lakes in central Asia – the Kyzyl-Issyuk Lake. The eastern shore of Kzyzl-Issyuk is home to over eighty percent of the Syrdhiz population. Beyond the lake is Kyrgyzstan; – the lake is the fastest and easiest way in and out of Alarumqi…"

His voice faded off as his eyes met Frank's and they both silently acknowledged what they were about to do – kidnap Jomar. Both mentally geared up for the upcoming fight. They would be confronting Jomar, who according to what Pentagon gave them, was highly resourceful and a proficient killer.

_That is, until they get Joe back…_ They were not naïve and knew that it would take a while to break through ten long years of mental conditioning. But now, they had more than hope. They knew with certainty that Joe was alive. That gave them the strength of will to be patient.

They spent the remaining time studying what little information they had on Syrdyzstan and memorizing the few maps they managed to get their hands on of Alarumqi and some nearby towns. The rest, they would have to play by ear.

Two hours later, they landed at Alarumqi International Airport. They were shown to a functional yet expensively furnished VIP lounge while the immigration department processed their passports. All first-time visitors into Syrdyzstan were apparently expected to read through a guide on local laws and customs, answer in writing a long list of questions, and sign a document declaring that they understood, respect, and abide by the local laws before they were allowed to leave the terminal and officially enter the country. The entire procedure was instituted apparently because of a series of bad incidents that happened some three years ago.

"Great," Frank muttered as he wrote out answers after answers in proper and complete sentences as requested by the documents. "They are really making sure that we read everything. This way we can't claim ignorance later."

Fenton agreed.

Then he tensed, as did Frank. The door into the lounge was opening so ever slowly.

A little head appeared at the door. A short while later a little boy dressed in some ethnic looking robes was standing right in front of them on his stubby little legs. The boy lifted his head and took off his little cap, and Fenton found himself staring into a pair of familiar vivid blue eyes on a very familiar face framed by a riot of golden curls.

The boy was the exact replica of Joe at five…

It took Fenton every ounce of will power that he possessed not to just reach out and grab the boy and hugged him tight, just like he did so many years ago in that playground in Bayport.

This boy was not his little Joey…

The image of Joe reached into one of his many pockets and took out several sheets of paper with his chubby hands. For several minutes, the boy studied the sketches on the papers intently, flicking his blue eyes back and forth between the sketches and the two men before him.

Fenton heard the indrawn gasp from Frank, and knew that Frank recognized the artwork. But he found his eyes glued to the little boy in front of him. He could not move.

Then the boy turned the sketch towards him, and asked with a clear New York accent… "Is your name Fenton Hardy?"

"Yes," Fenton answered without thinking of the consequences.

He could not lie. Not to this child before him. Not to his little Joe…

The boy then turned towards Frank.

"Then you must be Uncle Frank," the boy grinned. "I'm named after you. My name is Frank Somkid Hardy."

Fenton's eyes misted. He thought he heard a sniffle from Frank.

"Grandpa…"

Fenton's heart missed a beat. He had another grandson…

"I need to ask you a question," little Frank said.

Fenton nodded, noting the serious tone and posture of the child before him.

"Is it true that you are responsible for the death of over two hundred thousand Syrdhiz lives?"

His mind blanked. He could hear and see the shock on Frank's face, and how his elder son had to quickly bit his lips to stop himself from giving an immediate response. And then he found himself at the center of attention of two Franks…

He betrayed Syulina and he never looked back. He quitted the spy games and shut that part of his life away. Yet, sometimes in the middle of the night, when he could not sleep, he would make his way into his sons' room, just to reassure himself that his sons were sleeping soundly in a land not ravaged by war, and in a neighborhood with a very low crime rate. His children were safe, but halfway round the globe, those children were not…

_Was he responsible?_ Fenton finally allowed himself to remember what he spent years trying to forget.

_Years of infighting…_ he recalled Hartland's words.

He could no longer hold back the tears.

Two hundred thousand lives… two hundred thousand lives!

Fenton bowed his head and turned away from his son and grandson. He could not bear to see their condemnation. But he owed them the truth.

"Yes," he answered simply, his voice full of regret.

He had always taught his sons that a man must always be responsible and accept the consequences of his actions. Yet he had run away from his for over three decades. No, that was not the legacy he wanted to leave behind to his children.

"Yes," he answered a second time, and this time his voice was stronger and firmer. "I am."

"Dad…" Frank's voice was the merest whisper of disbelief.

Little Frank stared at him solemnly, and then broke into a toothy grin. He took the few steps towards his grandfather, reached up and gave the hand a little tug.

"Daddy always said that Grandpa's a good man," little Frank said. "And I agree with Daddy, grandpa."

Fenton got down on his knees and drew little Frank into his embrace. "Thank you," he choked to the child held tightly and lovingly in his arms.

Just then, the door swung open and Joe swept in, followed closely by several uniformed men.

* * *

A/N:

1 - I remember reading an actual book where Gertrude was a student leader. I can't remember the title now, but that's the Gertrude I'm referring to.

2 - I borrowed some characters from Syriana, as was requested. But you shouldn't need to watch Syriana for this story.

3 - Somkid is a character from GP - more explanations will be given later, so you don't need to read GP for this story.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks Mebabs, Sleuthgirl, Ms Fenway, Red Hardy and bhar :) for your kindly words. Hope this chapter is still as enjoyable.

Mebabs, Ms Fenway - so sorry for making you wait. You'll start to see Joe's-pov from here and it should grow from this point onwards. I'm sure Frank would want to know, and he would get Joe to talk, won't he?

Sleuthgirl: thanks, I'm glad you like it, and hope you continue enjoying it.

Bhar, Red: my son mastered advanced climbing including the use of impediments to aid climbing. We recently bought him his own table and chair set. So he put his chair on the table; climb on chair, climb on table, climb on chair on table and bypass all our child safeguards. The notebook was not the only casualty of his new found talents :(

Red - I've been remiss in answering questions - please read notes below if interested. (ACK - lost everything I type. gtg now, will try to answer later.)

For now, please enjoy.

* * *

HEARTLAND

**Chapter Six**

-o-

_'How does one greet a long lost brother?' _

Joe was walking towards them, his arms already lifting and reaching out towards them.

"Frank… Dad…"

_With joy and without reservations…'_

Frank took a step forward, ready to embrace his brother, but his father beat him to it. Fenton Hardy rushed past and enfolded Joe in a big hug. He held back a moment longer for his father's sake. His turn would come; or God have mercy on anyone who dared come between his and Joe's reunion.

"Joe… it's you… I can't believe it's really you…" Fenton cried and hugged his younger son tighter to him.

That was when Frank saw and heard Joe winced sharply. His brother was in pain – possibly bruised ribs, Frank deduced. Now that the initial shock and joy had pass, he could see the fading blue-black bruises on his brother's face. It was particularly bad around the left eye where the punches must have landed the hardest. From the state of healing, Frank estimated Joe took a battering some two weeks back. Then he noticed other things; like how tightly the skin stretched across his brother's face and the way the cheek bones stood out. His brother recently lost a significant amount of weight. His suspicions were confirmed the moment Joe gently extricate himself from his father's grasp and turned towards him. His brother's clothes hung loosely over his thinned-down frame. So he was gentle and careful when Joe turned to embrace him. He let himself enjoy that moment of intimacy that he sorely missed over the last ten years. There were moments in life that were beyond the description of mere words, and this was one of those. But his heart ached for his brother; he could feel the ribs under those clothes.

"What happened?" Fenton asked eyes firmly affixed on the fading bruises as soon as Joe stepped away from Frank.

"Just the usual bugbears," Joe hedged.

Frank smiled inwardly – still Joe.

Fenton stiffened. The father was not willing to accept that vague response.

But an angry childish voice retorted. "American bugbears..."

It was clear to both Fenton and Frank that Joe did not expect to see his son here in this room. Was that a flash of fear they saw in Joe's eyes as he tried to scoop his son into his arms?

Little Frank-Somkid eluded his father's grasp and leapt straight into Grandpa's Fenton's arms.

"Is he…" Fenton asked holding on to his grandson who clearly had at least part of the answers he wanted.

"Yes," Joe confirmed still trying to get to his son. "Now Frankie…"

"Mommy rescued Daddy just a week ago…" Frank-Somkid threw his father a defiant look before turning his full attention to his grandfather.

_A week ago… that phone call Din got…_ Frank recalled.

"Frankie… You need to go home to Mommy now…" Joe gestured one of his men forward.

"Mommy's now a hero just like Daddy. All the kids and all the adults at the playground said so. And you're going to like her a lot, Grandpa," Frank-Somkid continued staring solemnly at Fenton. "You will like her, won't you?"

Sensing that the answer was important to the child, Fenton answered in an equally solemn tone. "Of course I will like her."

Satisfied with the answer, Frank-Somkid turned to his father. "Daddy… Be careful…"

Once he got an acknowledgement from his father, the little boy raced out of the room followed closely by one of the men who came in with Joe.

"We do not have much time…" Joe started.

But this time, the father refused to be brush aside.

"What happened?" Fenton asked in a soft cold voice his hand reaching up to touch the bruise on Joe's face.

Frank could feel the suppressed rage and the cynical disillusionment. Like his father, he had an idea what the answer was. Unlike his father, he was younger and not ready to acknowledge what his mind already started to spell out.

It was one of the older men who entered with Joe who answered.

"Malan…" Joe warned, but the old man ignored him.

"Kadjin Jomar was taken by the Americans in Yemen almost a month ago. They baited him with the lives of two kids, twins, barely eight years old. He spent about three weeks in a basement in Bagram. It was pure chance that Kadjin Karanzic intercepted a missive to Pentagon, found out where he was held and got him out," Malan spat out contemptuously in heavily accented English. "You should have seen the shape he was in when we got him back."

Like his father, Frank closed his eyes and took several deep breaths to cool down. Hartland knew; they knew who Joe was, even had him for a while, and knowing what he did, probably tortured Joe over three weeks. Hartland lied. The question now was what exactly Hartland was up to. As Frank feted that question, an icy cold feeling started to invade his guts. Something was very wrong…

The door to the room burst opened and Din strode with several electronic gadgets, his expression grim.

"We received confirmation that an MQ-9 Reaper took off from Bagram Air Base just over an hour ago," Din announced tersely. "Karan's already onto it, but she said we have to leave now."

The MQ-9 Reaper, Frank knew, was the most advanced functional UAV in the US military…

"I assume you have prepared a change of clothes for us?" Fenton asked as he started removing his clothes.

An understanding passed between the father and younger son, and both smiled tightly.

"Dad, Frank… You'll have to excuse us," Joe said calmly as he gestured his men forward. "I need you to remove everything you have on you, and put these on. Then we have to leave, the quicker the better."

As the men were searching and scanning through their discarded clothes, Joe continued with the introductions.

"Din you already knew. This is Malan," Joe gestured at the older man. "He's a surgeon. The one scanning through your clothes now is Andar. And this is Teimo. They are here voluntarily…"

"Don't worry," Andar assured them. "We may not be the best, but we have families. We will not make silly mistakes."

"There's a hitch in the signal!" Din called out, his eyes never leaving the screen of the little gadget he was holding.

"Karan! Any idea what happened?" Joe switched on his little communication unit while heading towards the door in long swift strides gesturing everyone else to follow.

"I'm on it!" a female voice answered tersely through the comm. unit.

The group rounded a corner and rushed down a flight of stairs.

"Parking lot C2," Din yelled down the stairwell towards Joe.

Then the comm. Unit cackled. "The Reaper just fired the first of two target seeking missile. Estimated time to impact – eight minutes…"

Frank could hear the controlled fury in that female voice.

"Damn them for firing at a civilian target," Malan cursed.

"What type of missile?" Joe asked.

There was a moment of silence. And then a quiet reply that sounded more ominous than ever. "Air to ground Hellfire IV… wide area anti-armor splash damage…"

A chilling stillness passed through the group even though they never stopped moving. A second later, they burst through a set of double doors and into the parking lot. An armored paramedic truck was waiting for them with its engine running and doors wide opened.

"Turn off the shielding system," Joe yelled to the driver as he leapt onto the back of the truck pulling Frank up behind him. "We need to lead that missile away from here!"

"Find that damn chip! Start with Frank! Chances are it's on him," Din instructed as he got on to the passenger seat next to the driver. "Go Goran… go! Construction site ANE four."

The truck went screeching out of the parking lot and into the open. In the back of the truck, every one was desperately searching for the chip.

"Trying… trying…" Teimo muttered trying to keep his calm as he slowly ran his scanner over Frank's body.

"Those bruises on the back of the left shoulder – scanned that area first!" Joe instructed as he slowly felt his way up Frank's leg with his hands. Frank was doing the same with the other leg.

Malan and Andar were going over Fenton just as carefully.

"Status, Karan!" Din snapped.

"Found it!" Teimo called out as the scanner started to beep incessantly. "Left shoulder… and buried deep in…"

"Mark that area and continue scanning just in case there's more than one," Malan hollered throwing Teimo a marker pen as he reached for his surgical kit.

"Hellfire missile deviated from airport," Karan reported.

An air of relief swept through the occupants in the truck. But the relief lasted barely a fraction of a second.

"Estimated time to impact ninety seconds…" Karan stated. "You're not going to make it to the designated site."

"Is our immediate surroundings clear?" Din asked as he hopped into the driver's seat and took over from Goran.

"Yes… fifty-five seconds and counting…"

"HANG ON!" Din turned the shielding system back on and stepped on the gas.

Everyone held their breath mentally counting down the seconds even as they braced for impact. The missile they knew would hit the last known location – would they be able to run far enough to avoid the areal damage? The shockwave hits them before they heard the explosion. The blast was so powerful the truck took a bounce into the air. It almost toppled over, but finally landed roughly on its four trusty wheels amidst the swirling dusts.

"Second missile fired – lock-on target. How did hell they manage to get a lock-on?" Karan's voice screamed across the comm. Unit. "Estimated time to impact six minutes and counting…"

"Shielding system down," Din cursed as he continued his drive towards the designated spot. "Malan! You have to get that tracking chip out of Frank… NOW…"

"Scanning equipment knocked out. They must have packed some sort of electromagnetic pulse into that blast!" Malan reported grimly before turning his apologetic eyes towards Frank. "Both bottles of anaesthetic I have with me are broken. It's going to be a painful search through the muscles by hand since I no longer have the required equipment to help me detect that chip."

"We're not going to make it," Frank stated calmly ignoring the doctor. "Stop the truck, Din. Drop me off and then get the hell out of here!"

Frank was surprised at how calm he was as he turned to face his brother and father one last time. He was at that moment immensely grateful that God gave him a chance to see his brother again, and to know that Joe was alive and well. But he knew what had to be done. No one's going to die on his account – simple as that.

_'You know what you have to do,'_ Frank willed Joe to understand.

Joe's eyes flashed and then darkened, reflecting his rage and pain at the decisions he was about to make.

"Din… Stop…"

A cry of protest could be heard from Fenton.

The truck screeched to a stop.

"I'm staying, Joe," Din stated. "You need a driver."

"A doctor does not abandon his patient," Malan declared. "But do hurry…"

"Andar, Teimo… get my father off the truck. Goran, off with you too. Take shelter in one of the ditches on the side of the road… burrow deep as you can… good luck… now MOVE!" Joe ordered.

"Are you CRAZY?!" Frank yelled at his brother as he watched his father's furious and desperate face as the two men dragged him off the truck.

"YES!" Din, Joe and Malan yelled back together, leaving him a little stunned.

Then the doors closed and the truck was off again. Frank refused to give in to the inevitable; he tried to push Joe and Malan off the truck, but found himself caught in a tangle of clothes and bandages, courtesy of the doctor who was wilier than he expected.

Joe took advantage of the situation, reaching over to engulf his big brother in a bear hug. He made sure that Frank's entangled arms were pinned to the sides before locking his arms around Frank's waist and leaving his brother's back exposed to the doctor's scalpel. "Get that chip out now... Malan…"

Joe had him effectively immobilized, Frank realized a fraction too late. He stopped struggling the moment he felt the cold sharp blade cut into the back of his shoulder. He bit back a groan as the pain hits. It worsened as Malan started to work his way through the muscles and sinews, probing for that elusive tracking chip. His jaw was so tightly clenched it hurts.

"Focus on my voice big bro!" Joe urged. "And stop fighting me…"

Frank hanged on to every word; the one way conversation from Joe was a needed distraction from the burning pain from his back.

"We'll be fine, Frank, I promise you that… Even if we're not, I will never let you die alone, and you know that… But we'll be fine… I always have a backup plan… even if I have to figure out one on the spot… it's still a backup plan… And if I can't figure out one, Din will... if Din can't, Jin or Yeshe will… Then there's Karan… Karan always came through for us… she will come through for us, I know she will… We'll be fine…"

"Got it," Malan called out.

The pain in his back spiked for a moment, then dulled off a little. Frank could smell the alcohol and antiseptic in the air. He tensed. _What about the missile? How much time do they have left?  
_

A loud whoop from the comm. Unit echoed through the truck followed by a half-crazed laugh of relief. The truck slowed to a stop.

"Eyes over the lake, Joe," Karan laughed over the comm. Unit.

Malan opened the back doors and Frank looked in the direction Joe indicated.

At first, there was nothing in the sky. Then there was a bright flash in the distance. The muted sounds of the explosion followed a while later.

"Karan managed to hack into the Reaper's navigating system and redirected the missile," Joe said in a hushed voice smiling at Frank. "I told you she'll come through for us…"

Frank was just relieved he lived and that no one got hurt.

For the next few minutes, the four of them just stayed where they were, enjoying the feel of the wind brushing against their face, washing away the tension and terror of the preceding moments.

"We better get moving," Din reminded them. "We still have to pick up the others. I'm sure Fenton's half crazed with worry by now…"

Fenton shook off the two men holding on to him even before the truck stopped moving. It took the brothers almost ten minutes to calm the distraught father down. They had to pry Fenton's arms loose from his two sons when the paramedic truck finally arrived at one of the newer state hospitals in New Alarumqi.

Malan had insisted on checking over his crude surgery performed under desperate and unhygienic circumstances. He cleansed the wound again and re-did the stitches, and gave Frank an anti-biotic shot just to be on the safe side.So that was how Frank came to be sitting on a pristine white hospital bed by the window in the general ward about an hour later. He was waiting impatiently for that prickly old doctor to release him from the hospital.

Fenton Hardy was staring blankly out of the window, his lips drawn into a thin almost white line. It was clear to Frank that his father was angry, very angry.

His brother sat on the chair next to his bed looking calm and serene, seemingly just relaxing and enjoying their company. But Frank could feel the underlying tension that Joe was not showing. Every now and then, Joe's phone would ring and he would watch from the corner of his eyes as his brother took those calls, sounding serious for some, while chatting animatedly for the others. It reminded him so much of Joe ten years ago his eyes misted; Joe the teenager hogging the phone to the extent that his mother had to install an additional line in their house. It seemed that no matter where Joe was, his brother had no lack of friends.

That brought him rudely back into his current reality.

He almost caused his brother's death.

That tracking chip that was on him…

_How did they manage to plant that in him without him knowing?_ _When did they do it?_

Then he knew.

It was all a trap by Hartland and his ilk; and he and Dad fell for it.

That chip must have been injected into him during that short lapse into unconsciousness when Miller slammed his head against the wall. It was all staged. That was why Miller returned to his left shoulder again and again; to make sure that he would just dismiss any discomfort he felt from his left shoulder as a result of that beating he took. The entire discussion with Hartland and Nashville was a distraction. They were so focused on rushing to rescue Joe and keeping him safe from the entire American anti-terrorist establishment, they did not stop to consider the possibility that they were meant to break ranks with the Pentagon. There was no extraction team being sent for Joe. There was only him and Dad. And they were meant to die with Joe.

From somewhere deep within him, something dark reared its ugly head. His hands started to tremble as he fought to suppress that uncontrollable rage rising in him. His vision turned red…

He and Dad were bait. They knew Joe would come for them. They used him to kill his own brother. And what happened here would never be reported by any of the major news agency because as Hartland said, most people did not even know about the existence of this country.

"Frank!"

He blinked.

Fenton and Joe were looking down at him with concern written all over their faces. He suddenly felt irate.

"I'm fine!" he declared.

"Don't worry, it's probably just a delayed shock reaction," Malan assured his father and brother in a superior voice. "He's managing better than most other people on a desk job facing a real combat situation and staring death in the face for the first time…"

Frank glowered at the doctor.

"I'm giving Frank here a clean bill of health. Your boy can leave the hospital any time if you feel he's up to it," Malan deliberately ignored Frank and chatted to Fenton.

Joe hid a smile. Wily old Malan knew just what to say and do to rile up his patients and spark up their spirits.

Then Malan turned to Frank with a wide smile on his face that had Frank immediately on the defensive.

"You did good, boy! Didn't even utter a squeak, unlike this big cry baby here whenever I tried to keep him in for observation," Malan said approvingly to Frank while tilting his head at Joe. "And oh, you might want to keep this as a souvenir…"

Then he stared down at that little tracking chip that Malan cleaned and dropped onto his palm. He recognized that chip. It was definitely 'Made in America'. It was one part of the latest precision tracking and targeting devices developed by the Pentagon in their bid for what they termed 'zero-casualty-warfare' against terrorism.

They used it on him. He shook his head at that fact, stifling an urge to just laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Lifting his eyes brimming with dark humor to Joe, he commented lightly: "So they really want you dead, huh?"

Joe shrugged casually as if what happened was a daily occurrence. His lips curled slightly as if mildly amused. But those vivid blue eyes were pained and sad as they stared back into his brown ones.

"Yes…"

-o-

Halfway across the globe, a tall distinguished gentleman with graying hair on his temples in his late-fifties stood before a small-sized framed oil painting sat at its prominent place on the mantelpiece for the last thirty six years. It showed four smiling and confident young men posing in their baseball uniforms. That was the year the four of them led the college team to the national championships, the distinguished gentleman recalled with a reminiscent smile. The four of them were best friends from college and were members of the same fraternity. They all came from different backgrounds, but all were highly intelligent, top of their respective schools, and deeply passionate about doing what was best for America.

Then the smile hardened.

Dark brittle eyes settled on the first face in the painting.

"Why won't you listen to me? Why didn't you do as I say?" he asked a little resentfully.

His eyes flicked onto the second face in the painting.

"If you had believed in me as you said you would, you would still be alive today!" he snarled in anger.

Then his eyes fell on the third face in the painting, the only one still alive, or was he?

"Ah Fenton… you're the most promising of the lot, do you know that. But you turned out to be the biggest disappointment…"he murmured sadly. "I thought you, of all three, would understand that sometimes hard choices have to be made. You never had the guts to make them… and now, are you going to betray me and betray your country just like the other two?"

He poured himself a shot of scotch and down it in a single gulp.

"Still, over the years, you came through for me many times; taking down a good number of my enemies… it was on account of our friendship and your loyal service that I made sure that at least one of your sons survived eleven years ago. If only you backed away from that investigation, Joseph would have been returned to you unharmed…" he chatted conversationally with the smiling face in the painting. "Then again, Joseph turned out to be remarkably nosy stumbling into things he was not supposed to see… just like you, Fenton."

He poured himself another shot of scotch.

"Do you know how difficult it was for me to order that hit, Fenton?" he asked waving his little crystal glass before the painting. "But it had to be done… there's too much at stake here… and you should know my dearest friend, that one of the reasons why I survive so long at the top is the fact that I always strike first…"

There was a sharp rap on the door.

"Come in!"

His PA (personal assistant) entered, passed him a missive, and left.

He read the missive and his expression turned grim.

"That Joseph Hardy has more lives than a cat!" he cursed.

Damned Howell for his pedophilic tendencies! Howell should have killed that boy when he had the chance.

If Fenton met up with Joseph he would know what happened eleven years back… Would Fenton believe his wayward son or his best friend that went back all the way to his college years?

He rang for his PA.

"Get Peter Hartland here now," he ordered.

His lips curled into a cruel smile. It mattered not for Fenton would never have the chance to betray him, just like the other two.

* * *

A/N

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

HEARTLAND

**Chapter Seven**

-o-

An old and clunky van that looked like it was held together miraculously by nails and screws rumbled noisily down the roads of New Alarumqi. Despite the sad shape of the vehicle, the owner drove it with pride and care. This ancient contraption served him loyally for many years, even saved his life on a number of occasions. He would not trade this rusting metal box on wheels for any other cars, not even the classic Mustang he used to drool over so many, many years ago. This van was no longer used on missions, but he still invested time and effort tinkering over this beloved monstrosity, keeping it alive far longer than he should.

Joe could barely suppress that urge to laugh at his brother's and father's stupefied expression at the sight of his ugly yet beloved van as he ushered them onto those hard springy back seats. And when the car started off jerkily leaving behind spurts of black greasy exhaust, Joe could see exactly what Frank and his father thought of this dangerous piece of junk he was driving. He was glad that they could not see that goofy grin he was certain he had on his face; perhaps he was just happy to see them.

That grin faded as he rounded the corner only to see that the road was half cordoned off. There was a little dent on that side of the road. He could smell the scorched fresh earth wafting through the opened windows.

_Was anyone hurt? Did anyone die?_ He and Din exchanged a grim look; they would have to find out what happened from Yeshe later.

Reality always intrudes, Joe thought bleakly as he drove on as if nothing happened. How often had he gone to bed pretending he was still a child living in a safe neighborhood back in Bayport, only to wake up in the morning to know that he survived yet another night in a war-torn land? Joe sighed heavily. That boy was long gone, and the man that survived had hands stained with blood and what remained of his fractured soul tainted dark as the blackest night.

_Did Frank and his Mom know about what he had become and all the things he did? How much and what did those guys from Pentagon choose to tell his family? _

He supposed by now his family knew that one of the key reasons why he could not go back was the fact that he would be detained as soon as he set foot back in America. Jomar Al-Khazari was a dangerous terrorist, a cold-blooded killer, and an American turncoat according to the Pentagon Intelligence.

A colorful noisy bazaar loomed ahead. Joe stepped down on the clutch, shifted gears, and slowed down taking care not to run down the shopping crowd that spilled off the pavement carelessly onto the road. The sellers hawked their wares under the irregular shaped colorful cloth covers held up by thin bamboo sticks that shielded them from the worse of the mid-day sun. The buyers dressed in their colorful ethnic chapans went from stall to stall, haggling loudly with the sellers whenever they saw something they wished to purchase. He honked and the crowd parted. Some of the kids playing football (soccer) on the roads recognized him and Din. They waved cheerfully, calling out to him and Din to join them. He shook his head apologetically and the old van chugged carefully through.

This scene, Joe knew, would be reminiscent of the Algerian marketplaces in the early seventies to his father. He could not resist a sneak peek at his father via his rearview mirror. Joe knew from that sharp flash in his father's eyes that Fenton saw that quick glimpse that he took. Now his father knew he knew. He could still remember his shock at the discovery of his father's hidden past. Once the denial period was over, he recalled how sick he felt as more and more details were laid at his feet. He knew how successful his father was – this entire region was still roiling from the aftermath of that success. He knew about the friends his father left behind, the friends his father betrayed, all in the name of national interest and national security.

But at the end of the day, Fenton Hardy was his father. No matter what Fenton the spy masterminded, there was no question that Fenton the father loved his sons. And he loved his father.

Did Frank know? That would be between his father and Frank; it was not his place to tell, Joe acknowledged. This nasty business of international intrigue was a vicious cycle and an endless source of bitter irony. Fenton Hardy retired young from the spy games, a highly successful agent, a secretly decorated national hero and a patriot. But fate gave Fenton a wayward younger son who ran away from home, got himself addicted to heroin, and a secretly declared national traitor and a killer.

Something in him resisted all that branding. He willfully ignored it. Whatever he lost of himself through the years, there was one virtue he hung on to; He was always brutally honest about everything he did. He would accept full responsibilities for all his deeds when the time comes. Joe had no illusions as to his eventual fate. He knew there was no point in fighting it; there was no such thing as 'quitting' in the spy business.

A wave of sadness washed over him for all the lost hopes and the lost dreams. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He took the best choice given all options he could see was available to him every step of the way. He never looked back and he had no regrets for all the decisions he made. It had to be that way. His family would just have to accept him for what he was, what he did, and for what he become. Keeping his eyes on the road, he drove doggedly on, ignoring the three pairs of curious eyes that turned his way drawn by the sudden tension emanating from him.

Joe could feel Din's eyes boring into him from the passenger seat before resuming the rather professional tour-guide narration of this newly created city that was barely a decade old. "That blackened building to your right was the first western-style hospital built in New Alarumqi, and manned by the first batch of medical graduates trained in France."

It was Din's unintentional choice of words gave him away, Joe noted with a slight but sad smile. A civilian installation such as a hospital is 'managed' while a military installation such as a fort is 'manned'. They all lived in the shadows of war for so long, that life pervaded their everyday thoughts and routine.

And then Din's voice softened to the point that it was barely audible. "The American-backed Syrdhiz rebels and so-called freedom fighters bombed that building four years ago, claiming that the hospital was a cover for a biological research lab. Many innocent civilians died that day, doctors and patients, women and children… I remember digging through the ruins with my bare hands… until I found her. I was too late. She was dead. As was her one-day old new-born…"

Din never talked about that day. Joe wondered why his sworn brother chose to talk about it now. He never forgot crawling through that mess of twisted metal frames still warm from the blast after a half-crazed Din, working on site until his arms were raw and bloody, knowing all the while it was too late. Din lost his wife and newborn child that fateful morning.

"They call _us_ terrorists. A terrorist by definition is one who attacks unarmed civilians. And Evil is the cowardly face that hide behind ideological excuses as they incite others to bomb unarmed women and children to bits, never even having the guts to see the faces of those they murdered," Din continued in a flat tone as that blackened single-storey former hospital dropped from sight.

The old van continued its bumpy journey through the myriad of streets in an uncomfortable silence. Those streets grew dustier and narrower the further they travelled from New Alarumqi and into the ancient city of Alarumqi. Western styled multi-storey buildings constructed from cement soon gave way to single-storey little domes built from the rich brown mud dredged from the shores of the Kyzyl-Issyuk, as it had been done for the last thousand years. And then they were headed out into the shimmering vast emptiness of the Ylama-Kysuk desert.

"Where are we going?" Frank finally asked breaking the heavy silence as the van turned onto a barely visible dust track.

"Home," Joe answered simply as he drove into the setting sun.

He was enjoying the feel and the scent of the rapidly cooling desert breeze brushing against his face when he noted that both his brother and father were starting to shiver from the falling temperatures. He passed Frank his personal fur cape and Din did the same for his father.

"Aren't you cold?" Fenton had asked even as he burrowed gratefully into the warm furs.

"We're used to the cold," Din answered matter-of-factly as the van rumbled on, his eyes on the monotonous landscape beyond the window. "And our chapans are thicker than your shirts and pants."

To the untrained eye, the surroundings appeared brown and devoid of life. But Joe had learned, out of necessity, how to spot the tell-tale signs of vegetations, the hidden water-holes, and the little creatures of the desert. He pointed out several of those to his father and brother as he drove pass; that knowledge might come in useful later.

"Joe…"

"Yes, Frank?"

"You never explained why they wanted you dead so desperately…"

Joe signed. He was hoping that would keep for later, much later. He signaled Din, who reached into the glove compartment and removed a medium-sized lead box that containing several pieces of chipped rocks. Din passed that box over to Frank.

"What are these?" His brother asked.

Joe could tell Frank already guessed and was simply awaiting confirmation.

"These rock chips contained the merest trace of low grade uranium. It is an open secret that Syrdyzstan has the world's largest and richest deposit of uranium," Joe affirmed.

Frank stared at him with that look in his eyes that said – _go on, I'm waiting_.

Joe sighed. "But you know that already."

From the back seat, Frank nodded as he listened attentively.

"The estimated value deposits present at each site and their actual locations, however, are lesser known secrets," Joe added cautiously taking another peek at Frank via his rearview mirror.

Frank continued staring at him, still waiting patiently for him to continue. A heavier sigh escaped his lips and Din came to his rescue.

"All five of us opposed every single mining deal the two major American mining corporations had come up with so far. Perhaps the American Intelligence believed that with us out of the way, one of the proposed deals would magically fall through..," Din casually threw out a statement. "But given the fact that both American firms already had an agreement for full mining rights with the Syrdhiz rebels…"

From the way Frank's lips tightened, Joe knew his brother was not buying Din's explanation either. He smiled grimly; he really was not expecting his brother to. And Frank was right; the uranium deal was a part of one story that had been going on for over thirty years. There were other stories, some darkly humorous, others darkly tragic. Some of those stories would have to be told eventually.

_But sorry, big bro… just not now…_

"We're home," he announced instead, driving through two large rock formations and coming to a stop at the edge of a small settlement.

He could not help but to notice how relieved Frank and his father looked as they exited his old clunky van. Joe chuckled in bemusement as he led the way pass the row of circular tents and towards a little clearing.

"These moveable homes, or 'Yurts', are a common sight once you step out of the towns into the Syrdhiz country," Joe explained for Frank's benefit. "The Khazaris are a mountain people. This is only one of temporary settlements as we head towards the city for the summer festivities."

Frank and his father were busy observing their surroundings, clearly trying to get some insight into his daily life. This, Joe knew, was hardly representative of the life he led. But this was what he preferred his family to see and know of him: the husband, the father, and the herder.

The cloudless sky was at that moment a splash of pale lavender. Joyous laughter, so pure in its innocence rang through the settlement. How he loved the children's laughter; they never failed to rejuvenate his darkened and weary soul. As always, he paused to watch the little children play; all warmly dressed in their fur-lined chapans and their little fur skullcaps. To the side, a dozen or so chickens were running madly within a small rattan enclosure, clucking incessantly. Next to the enclosure, several goats were lazily chewing on their dinner, tethered to a thick pole driven firmly into the ground. Spirals of smoke rose high into the sky before fading away into nothingness. The aromatic fragrance of slightly charred grilled meat tantalized his nostrils, reminding him that it had been hours since he last ate.

He took several more steps forward. His heart beat a little faster in anticipation.

"Daddy!" A little figure disengaged himself from his little friends, yelling at the top of his little lungs as he ran towards them.

Everyone and everything else fell away as Joe sped forward instinctively, dropped down on his knees and scooped his little boy into his arms, holding him tight. Then he reached out to his beloved wife who was already there waiting, pulled her into his loving embrace kissing her with all the love and fervor he could muster. For the next minute, they stood there in a world of their own hugging on to each other tightly, a family relishing and appreciating their private time together in a private world of their own. This was the most precious moment in Joe's life every single time it happened. He treasured every single moment with his wife and child as if it was his last; because there was no guarantee they would have that family hug again comes tomorrow.

His hand gently traced that faint outline of the jagged scar that ran from the left temple down her cheek. He would never forget how she came by that scar. She never blamed him. Joe smiled down lovingly and encouragingly at the woman who had suffered and sacrificed much on his account. Theirs was a love borne out of admiration and respect from the moment they first met so many years ago. And given what they had gone through and survived together, he could literally claim that their love was a commitment forged through the fires of hell.

_They will accept and love you,_ he mouthed silently to her before they as a family turned to face his brother and his father. Din, Joe noted gratefully, had already conveniently and quietly slipped away.

"Frank, Dad… I would like you to meet my wife…"

Joe could see that they recognized and remembered her.

"Phailin…"

Phailin Ornlamai inherited her distinctive olive-shaped pale blue eyes from her drug-addict American mother and her Thai father who made a modest fortune fighting in a series of illegal underground circuits. At sixteen she was gawky and skinny. At twenty-seven, motherhood gave her the womanly curves she lacked in her teens. Though not pretty by conventional standards, she had strong classic features that would endure with time. At sixteen, she was quick-tempered and impulsive, and carried a baggage of emotional scars that no teenager should have. Just like him. His family had been rightfully concerned about the explosive combination of her and him as a teenage couple.

"Frank, Mr. Hardy," Phailin greeted warmly, but she was nervous, her hands gripping tightly onto his.

His father was already moving forward, his arms extended.

"Welcome to the family, Phailin," Fenton declared drawing his daughter-in-law into his embrace. "Please, call me 'Dad' or 'Fenton'. And Laura will be so excited and happy to know that she has another daughter and grandson."

"Thank you, little sister, for saving my brother's life," Frank added after giving Phailin a brotherly hug. "Dr. Malan told me. It was a brave and risky thing that you and Karan did, breaking into Bagram…"

Nosy Malan, Joe shook his head affectionately. That old man lost the remaining members of his family overnight in a surprised raid; Malan the doctor who healed friends and enemies alike. He was one of the very few who answered his request for help; Malan who had every reason to hate Fenton Hardy. And Malan, who loved Phailin as his daughter, made sure Frank had every reason to like his future sister-in-law before even meeting her.

Suddenly his father stiffened. His eyes were firmly affixed on something, or rather someone, at the other end of the clearing.

"You have to excuse me… there is someone I must talk to…" Fenton said and left.

As Frank stared at their father's retreating back, Joe stepped in.

"Dad will be fine," he assured Frank as he firmly led his brother towards another group of people who were just making their way into the settlement.

"And there are a few people I know who are dying to meet you… this is Karan, she's the big sister here… and this is Jin... and Yeshe…

_-o-_

One moment Fenton was welcoming Phailin into the family, and the next moment, he saw her.

She was standing there on the far end of the clearing hanging up the laundry. She had not changed; still as down to earth as she was so many years ago. She still looked as dignified and radiated a calm peaceful aura that made her seemed more than earthly from a distance.

"…there is someone I must talk to…" Fenton excused himself and strode off.

He knew his family was taken by surprise by his abruptness. But he just had to talk to her. There was so much he had to apologize and atone for. He saw from the corner of his eye that Joe prevented Frank from following. He was grateful that his younger son knew what he needed.

As he neared, he saw the signs that the harshness of the years had taken their toll on her. There were deep lines etched onto her face that told of her long years of stress and worries. Her skin, once soft and smooth, was now weather-worn and dry. As he got close enough, he could see the scars on her lower arms and the calluses on her palms. He stood and watched, knowing that her association with him changed the future she could have had. An image flashed. A young and beautiful heiress to one of the most powerful clans in central Asia stared up into his eyes wearing her heart on her sleeve. She was happily telling him of her plans after college; her dreams of helping the clan Elders modernize her country. And naively, she told him of things she never should have.

"Syulina…"

She turned around.

For a moment Syulina Jai Ak-Khazari merely stood there and observed him. There was recognition, but there was no anger or condemnation in her steady gaze. Fenton knew then that the forgiveness he so desperately seeks would not be forthcoming.

Syulina Jai Ak-Khazari had moved on.

"Fenton," she acknowledged. "It had been a long time."

"Thirty three years… What have you been up?" he asked a little awkwardly.

"What did they tell you about us?" She countered in a bemused tone.

"The usual, that you were the bad guys."

"That was what they said to you all those years ago, wasn't it?" Syulina laughed softly with a slight shake of her head. "Nothing changed…"

"The best lies are the simple ones…" Fenton concurred.

"Like the ones you used when you said you 'love me'?"

Fenton flinched.

"I've made mistakes… and now Joe… my son is paying for the sins of the father…" he commented remorsefully.

International intrigue was not a frivolous baseball game where the old results became meaningless as soon as the next season begins. The impact of International spy games went beyond winning and losing. It had far-reaching consequences that could span decades and affect millions of lives.

Syulina stared at him. He broke the eye contact and turned away. Something about the way she looked at him shamed him. She sighed, and turned her gaze on the children playing in the clearing.

"No one can pay for what happened, Fenton," she rebuked gently.

Fenton could not refute that statement. How could anyone pay back the lost lives and the years of misery?

"Joe is not paying for his father's sins," she added. "It is not the way of the clans to hold the sons responsible for the deeds of their fathers."

When she turned to him again, Fenton could see the pride in her eyes and hear the pride in her voice. It was the pride a mother has for her child. "Joe is his own man. He is doing what you should have done all those years ago. Your son is by far a better man than what you were."

Fenton joined her in watching the children. He watched how the older kids gathered around Joe, and how his younger son taught them how to dribble the soccer ball. He saw how Joe included Frank in his little game with the kids, just like he did so many years ago in that safe-house. He recalled Joe's actions earlier in the day; he knew the respect his younger son commanded from his men.

"A father could not be happier knowing that…" he finally said in a quiet tone.

Syulina continued to hang up the laundry, and Fenton pitched in to help. She let him. He was grateful. Then he saw the artificial left limb she had.

"Is there anything I can do to make up for what I did…"

"You can't," Syulina cut him off, her tone a gentle rebuff.

In his heart, Fenton already knew that. He could not turn back the clock. He could not stop the barrage of self-recriminations that were eating into his conscience either. The burden of guilt grew with each passing minute that he stood on this land. Something about his state of mind must have conveyed itself to her. For Fenton knew that she was watching him again. He still could not meet her eyes.

"However, there is someone I would like you to meet," Syulina finally said.

Something in her tone pricked his curiosity.

"Come, follow me," Syulina said.

He followed.


	8. Chapter 8

And the next chapter.

Mebabs: Thanks for the warning - I appreciate it, will try to cut down on the curry fare from next chapter onwards... I hope this chapter is not too confusing, was already written...

I not sure whether I should give names to all those curry fare...

Franknjoe: Thanks. I have to admit I really struggled with this piece. Needed the details to cover the challenge requirements, but... (sighs) LOVE the second chap of yours too... sorry my commenting was cut short by a very bad tempered toddler... I will try to get back to it.

MissFenway: thanks very much.

Note and disclaimer: the US and Russian President I borrowed from 24 season 5. P Logan almost caused P Suvarov's demise.

* * *

HEARTLAND

**Chapter Eight**

-o-

From a dimly lit room somewhere within the Pentagon, a grim-faced man in his thirties read a top priority classified fax he just received signed by the Secretary of Defense. He sat down before a communications panel, and soon an encrypted message was traveling at light speed across the ocean via the American military satellite network, to be received and read by six highly trained covert ops agents currently stationed in a little town across the lake from New Alarumqi.

His job done, the man put the piece of fax through the shredder and left the room. That particular order never existed, as far as any legitimate branch of the American government and military was concerned.

Twenty minutes later, six trained American agents specially chosen for their appearance dressed as members of the Dhohari Clan of the Syrdhiz rebels made their way silently across the lake under the cover of darkness. Their target: Tenzin Jaimye Cho Ak-Khazari, her five advisors, and two dangerous American turncoats.

-o-

It was still cold, dark and quiet, but the cunning old warlord knew that dawn was fast approaching. He had taken a leaf from the Battle of Thermopylae, and had chosen to launch his attack as his enemies revel in their summer festivities, following the footsteps of one of the greatest Persian Kings – Xerxes. But he had gone a step further. Not only had he ascertained there was no Leonidas to upset his plans, he had also ensured that no Leonidas would ever arisen to lead anyone against him. He glanced at his watch. His Dhohari allies should have completed their mission and assassinated most of the prominent leaders of the Khazari clan and their allies by now.

Those poor Dhoharis, he thought grimly. Used by the Russians, used by the Americans, and finally used by him. But they really should have learned after getting burnt by the Russians, the old warlord shrugged – he had no sympathy for fools. The Americans had even less reason to care for the local interest compared to the Russians. The Russians are next door neighbor; they would have some care about what they are creating on their doorsteps. The Americans, on the other hand, are tucked safely an ocean and a continent away.

He smiled grimly. The poor American agent thought he could get away with using him – the chief of one of the oldest Syrdhiz clans. Unlike the Dhohari, he had kept quiet and bided his time. No one knew of his hatred of the Khazaris. Unlike those other warlords the American intelligence used, he did his homework. The agent who passed him those two biological bombs had no idea he knew of its history. He was no fool, and no way was he going to use something that potentially permanently contaminates his homeland. So he sold them for a good price – both bombs were currently on their way to Afghanistan. The Americans would be in for a nasty surprise, he smirked. He spared a thought for that poor agent who had at most a couple of hours of life left. If all goes well, the American intelligence would believe their man was accidentally down by the Russians. Then again, so what if the Americans knew? A number of lucrative contracts and Corporate America would help him sooth everything over. History had shown that to be true, and he was an avid student of history.

He lifted his night-vision binoculars. There was the silhouette of the miserable guard on night duty at a lonely border outpost. He signaled his men to make the necessary computations, and maneuvered a tank into position.

Fire!" he signaled.

The outpost was instantly obliterated in a ball of fire.

'That watch man never knew what hits him,' he thought in grim satisfaction.

Another signal from him and the small army he had with him began to move swiftly and quietly. They would hit New Alarumqi just as the first rays of the rising sun warms the roofs of those western styled buildings. With the leaders gone and the main city under his control, the population would bow to him. Those who opposed his rule would become mere guerrillas, to be slowly rooted out over time.

-o-

Fifty-eight year old Central Asia Intelligence Specialist and former KGB field agent Vladmir Kotsky glanced impatiently at his watch.

_Where is that American kid?!_ He muttered irritably.

He was still curious as to why the American agent asked specifically for him, and requested that they meet in a tiny border town with limited modern conveniences just twenty miles from the borders of Syrdyzstan. He did not want to take up this mission – he old creaky bones were no longer up to the arduous tasks demanded by active field work in this region.

_But one just does not say no to a personal request from Yuri Suvarov the President_, he groused.

So he came all the while wondering at the unknown connections between Suvarov and that American agent. In his line of work, unknown element no matter how trivial kills.

Suddenly, the hair at the base of his neck tingles. Something had gone wrong, he knew without a doubt. Throwing several coins onto the counter, he grabbed his coat and headed out into the cold morning air.

"Come Sergei, hurry…" he called out to his partner, a much younger agent whom he was mentoring.

He walked briskly northwards. There were only two main roads in this little town. The smaller road was dark and isolated. He moved even faster. And then there, a little dark patch that was barely visible on the side of the road…

He sped up. It was the American agent he was supposed to meet. He worked quickly, locating the bleeding wounds, binding them, and then shifting the injured agent to the nearest shelter with Sergei's help. The bandages were thoroughly soaked through, and the American grew paler. With a sinking heart, Vladmir knew the agent would not survive. They were too far away from the level of medical care that the agent needed. He brushed away the matted hair that covered the face. He noted sadly the agent was young, barely in his thirties. He frowned. There was something familiar about the face beneath him…

The eyes snapped open. Vladmir was taken aback by the recognition in those eyes. For a moment, the face beneath him relaxed, as if he knew he made it. A soft rattling sound could be heard as the agent tried to speak.

"Take it easy, boy. Help is coming, you'll be fine," he lied in English.

The pale face beneath him smiled sadly and a shivering finger pointed to a part of his jacket that looked slightly thicker than it should be. Vladmir gave Sergei a quick nod, and his partner tore through the seams extracting a bundle of tightly rolled up papers. He scanned through them quickly, his eyes darkened.

"I… mistake… must warn…" the dying American gasped painfully.

"Hush… try to relax," Vladmir said soothingly. "You must not aggravate your wounds…"

The young American shook his head slightly. He took several deep breaths before continuing, his voice amazingly steady.

"The yellow papers are for Kremlin… Russian national security… the white ones… you must promise me to pass them to Jomar Khazari…or any one of the five tigers…" He coughed out two mouthful of blood.

"Of course… now you must try to rest…" Vladmir had no intention of doing that, but he continued to sooth the dying man.

His gentle ministrations were cut short by a firm grip on his forearm. Their eyes met. Vladmir saw the desperation in those feverish eyes.

"Please… Grizzly Kotsy… my father…"

Vladmir suddenly knew why the young face was so familiar. "You are Matt Bennerson's son?"

Bennerson was a CIA field operative. They were arch-enemies during the Afghan war as each worked at outwitting each other gathering Intel for their respective home government. As they worked against each other, they also grew to respect each other's intelligence and sense of honor. The two of them while pitting wits and skills against each other, had chosen to work together whenever civilian lives were at stake. They were still not exactly friends, but they had helped each other out from time to time when innocent lives were at stake. Vladmir was starting to see why he was given this particular mission.

"You can read… all of them… nothing against Russia… I swear…" the dying agent begged. "Only civilians… women… children…"

Vladmir took another longer look through the white papers before turning to face the American agent.

"I know Jomar. I will personally see that Jomar gets all of these," he promised, keeping his gaze steady.

"Tell my father… I'm sorry…"

"He will be proud of what you did," Vladmir said. "Your father would have done the same thing. I know…"

The American lapsed into unconsciousness. The young face looked as if he was merely sleeping, not dying. It would not be long now, Vladmir knew. He would like to think that he gave that boy some measure of peace. After making sure that the dying man was as comfortable as he could make it, Vladmir reached into his pocket and took out a small digital camera. He took several pictures of every single piece of paper before handing all the papers over to Sergei.

"Take these back to Kremlin," he ordered curtly.

"What about you, sir?" Sergei asked.

"I'm crossing over to Syrdyzstan," he answered as he secured memory card he removed from the digital camera in a hidden pocket. "See that our young American friend is well cared for. Arrange for the father to come and pick up the body. Make sure you have a copy of all the white colored documents ready for him."

Sergei was definitely surprised now.

"Bennerson will understand why his son died when he reads those," Vladmir told his trainee agent. "It would give him some measure of peace. It is never right that a father should bury his sons. Every grieving father deserves to know that their sons were good men and died for a good cause."

"The Syrdhiz I understand. They are our neighbors. But why should we care about the Americans?" Sergei could not help the mild distaste the slipped into his voice at that last word.

Vladmir looked down at the earnest young man before him. It reminded him of another young man so many decades go. He was still young then, his faith in patriotism and loyalty was absolute. The years spent undercover had burned away much of those green-eyed innocence.

How interesting all military and secret services started off by indoctrinating their trainees to think of the other side as the 'evil' guys. He supposed it was an easy way to justify hurting the other side when one thinks of them as being 'evil' or 'less than human'. But by making things simple, many of the graduates also failed to learn that human relations are far more complicated than friend vs foe or good vs evil. And by the time they attain the requisite wisdom, if they survived that long, it was too late to undo some of their worst mistakes. Of course there were some who never grew wise…

"Let's be brutally honest here, young one," Vladmir said in a serious tone. "We are in a very nasty and dirty business. If you are a spy, then you are the bad guy no matter who you work for. Make no mistake about that. But every country needs people like us. We might be nasty, but there are always nastier people out there. Every country needs people who are willing to get their hands dirty so that the normal fathers mothers and children and live happy normal lives."

Vladmir stared into the eyes of the young man he was mentoring. Suddenly it was important to him that Sergei understands. If one of his charge would go about this dirty business with a conscience from the start, that might count for something.

"It is important, that while being a nasty person, you draw a line somewhere. Otherwise, you would end up being one of those nastier persons. That is why, whenever we could, whenever our actions would not hurt our own women and children, that we should show compassion and mercy. And when you do that, you would also acknowledge that our enemies are human too. They too have fathers and mothers and children…"

"But why should we help them. Let their people do their own dirty job…"

"Because son, if we save their children today, they might save ours tomorrow," Vladmir answered simply. "We are in a dirty business with few if any rules. Our allies today could easily become enemies tomorrow and vice versa. Nothing around us is simple, and nothing is permanent. Sometimes the most dangerous players were those who appeared most innocent. Just take a look at Syrdyzstan. A relatively small country, but it is the heartland of the heartlands, strategically located geographically and rich in resources. In Her skies, the Eagles circled with greed in their eyes. The rouge Eagles perched in the craggy peaks, hidden in the mist, but sharpening their talons ready to swoop in for the kill. Every day She stares north, wondering when the hibernating Bear would awaken hungry, and whether It would awaken hungry or starving. To the East, the Dragon watches and bides its time. And many forgot the Rose, whose thorns many failed to see because they were distracted by her fairness…"

Poor Sergei looked really confused now. Vladmir laughed and patted his charge firmly on the back. "Just get everything back to Kremlin. Tell Bennerson that I will contact him personally later. And tell President Suvarov that I will make sure Jomar Khazari knows that the debt is repaid in full."

"So this is about returning a favor… because Jomar had secretly provided intel that saved President Suvarov's life recently?" Sergei asked – he knew all about what that self-serving American President, Charles Logan did.

Vladmir sighed. Jomar acted in the interest of the Americans, and the Russians, and a lot of other people; this world did not need another cold war. Sergei clearly still had a long way to go, but at least he was learning.

"Not quite, but you're getting there. Just think over what I said in your spare time…"

Sergei scanned through the white documents again. "If I were Bennerson, I would be mad at my own government… if I believed in these papers of course…"

"I assure you that Bennerson would pursue the truth with everything he has," Vladmir assured his charge. "Like you said, sometimes, we have to let the Americans do their own dirty job…"

Sergei's eyes lit up in sudden comprehension as he started to appreciate the value of subtlety in this line of work. "We don't do anything nice without a reason, do we?"

"We rarely do nice things, but there are times when we like to, and there are times when we have to," Vladmir clarified. "This case, we have to…"

Sergei frowned. He wondered what he was missing. Then his mentor was speaking again.

"But I really have to go, or it would be too late…" It might already be too late to warn the Khazaris, but he still had to try, Vladmir thought as he quickly pack a small bag of necessities and headed for his trusty old jeep.

-o-

A small group of gun-toting high-powered oil executives, politicians, and power-brokers were making their way back to the exclusive private hunting lodge, still high from their recent kills. As they walked, they talked.

"I think it is time we take some serious action to secure our National Energy interest," Bob Toray, the CEO of Connex-Killen stated firmly.

That statement had a sobering effect on the group. They all knew that America had recently lost a number of lucrative mining contracts to the Chinese and the Russians. It was galling, it was worrying.

"At least you got the mining rights to that field in Kazakhstan," Pete Koman, the CFO of National Energy Inc. groused. "The Khirghiz just granted the mining rights we spent months biding for to the Chinese."

"The Chinese again!" Another exec spat out. "Those chinks are using our money to out-bid us. Ungrateful bastards… Don't they know where their wealth came from? American consumers…"

"So what exactly is our energy security status at the moment," Senator Klimmer queried.

"Our supply from the Saudis is secure as long as we continue to support the respective Sheiks. The main concern from the Middle East at the moment is from the fast growing Emirates like Qatar and Syriana. Their independent and socialistic regimes are sowing social discord among the poor segment threatening the status quo in the region…" Koman answered in a terse tone of voice.

"We need to keep a close watch on the political situation in the South American countries. There are rising indications of instability in the South American supply. The newly elected leaders of Chile, Venezuela and Bolivia having risen to power on anti-American sentiments are eager to flex their muscles. A rapidly growing Asia means that our South American suppliers could easily move into new markets. The oil refineries in Singapore are working at less than half capacity and could easily pick up the new businesses." the Chairman of American Petroleum Refineries Group continued. "These people have no sense of loyalty after the years of American patronage helping them build their economy."

"Now that the cold war is over, we need a stronger American presence in Central Asia to safeguard our access to those resources. Who would have thought there is so much oil under those barren lands? Not to mention the fact that the world's largest deposit of uranium was also located there, in one of the smallest countries…" Bob Toray stated but muttered a little irritably to himself. "And those darn Syrdhizs are proving to be far too adept at playing by the rules of international commerce and law…"

"Hey Bob, isn't Connex-Killen embroiled in some international court-case over some mining incident in Syrdyzstan? Or was it Kazakhstan? Could never remember those '-stans'…" Another oil executive chipped in.

"It was over the mining rights to drill for oil under the Kzyzl-Issyuk Lake located between Kyrgyzstan and Syrdyzstan. The previous rulers signed that agreement ten years ago, and the current leaders decided to renegade on the deal. The Syrdhiz claimed they had proof that the technology we are using would permanently damage one of their most important fresh-water eco-system…" Bob clarified.

"So were you damaging their eco-system?" Senator Wayman cut in with the requisite question and his legal safeguard.

"Connex-Killen had conducted numerous studies, all of which showed conclusively that any damage to the environment would be minimal," Bob gave the political correct answer.

"Hey Chris, you have been quiet so far. So what's your take on all these?" Senator Klimmer turned a curious glance at the quietest person in the whole group. _But make no mistake,_ Klimmer thought grimly, _Chris Mendelson, who was on the board of directors to a number of major US corporations, and the CEO of a small technology company, had a lot of high-powered people by their dicks. Including him…_ He regretted knowing Mendelson, but he had too much to lose now.

"You might not have to worry about that case for long," Chris Mendelson said with a secretive smile.

When all the attention was focused on him, Chris continued. "Let's say, there is a possibility of some major power shifts within that region that might be beneficial to America."

The others nodded knowingly. The oil execs smiled and murmured their gratitude for the possible good news. They buried their discomfort at owing that devil, Mendelson, yet another favor.

"But we're back at the lodge. Let's go freshen up and get ready for dinner, shall we?"

Chris watched them scurried away with the mildest contempt visible on his face. Greedy power-hungry cowards, every single one of them…

Later, Chris was furious to realize that he spoke too soon.

Once back in his personal quarters, he took out his blackberry. There were several urgent emails waiting for his attention. He scanned the messages and his face turned black. Chris took a moment to gather his thoughts. He always had contingency plans in place. After adjusting his plans to account for the new variables that just appeared in his neat equations, he made several calls to his most trusted men issuing the new instructions in crisp curt tones.

It was time for plan B.

-o-

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hardy, your husband was an American spy, but he is also a traitor…"

Laura Hardy fought to hold on to her infamous volatile temper as Hartland listed down a series of Fenton's supposed crimes against America. She silently counted from one to ten and beyond as Agent Hartland continued spewing more and more poisonous lies.

"She must have managed to convince Fenton to join her cause when they met in Europe thirty four years ago," Hartland placed several old black and white photographs on the coffee table. "That was why Fenton gave us such a sketchy report after he returned from his mission."

Laura gave those photographs only a cursory glance. They showed a young couple enjoying themselves in various locations across Europe. They appeared to be deeply in love with each other and seemingly unaware of the world around them.

"They had a child together. She was born in the United States. Her birth certificate listed Fenton Hardy as the father and her name as Karan Mai Hardy," Hartland placed another set of photographs on the table.

Laura could hear Gertrude snorting in disbelief in the background. Again she gave a cursory glanced at the photographs. This time, she could not hold back a shocked gasp. She could certainly see the similarity in features between Karan and Frank. Both shared the same lower jaw line, and the same shape of eyes and nose.

Did Fenton lie to her? Laura could not help that tiny bit of doubt from creeping into her thoughts. It lasted but for a second. The correct question was: Did her husband know? And Laura knew that if Fenton had known that he had a child, he would never have abandoned her at any cost. Her husband did not know, Laura concluded.

"This photograph was taken just three days ago by our stringer in New Alarumqi," Nashville said, placing an A4 sized color photograph on the coffee table, letting the clarity and the details on that photograph speak for itself:

It looked like a cozy family enjoying themselves in the midst of some festivities. Fenton had an arm held supportively around Syulina, who was leaning against her husband. Both their eyes were on the three people who were on their knees doing something on the ground in front of them. Frank, Joe and Karan, Laura noted. All of them appeared happy and at ease with their surroundings.

"It was a happy reunion, wasn't it?" Hartland stated sympathetically.

Laura wanted to swipe that fake expression off Hartland's face.

Nashville continued speaking. "We believe that stealing the blueprints to America's nuclear technology was the last task Syulina had for your husband. They did it with Howell's help. Frank played a big part in keeping the feds off Howell's back for the last six years as they worked for a way into one of our most advanced military labs…"

She continued hearing but stopped listening after that. If it were just Fenton, she might concede that their story though improbable, was not impossible. But to implicate Frank – those men overplayed their cards. With the merest flick of her eyes, she warned Callie and Gertrude to hold their tongues and their temper. Hartland had yet to reveal what exactly he wanted from them.

They did not have to wait long, and this time, Laura's blood boiled.

"No way!" she asserted in a deceptively calm voice.

"Your husband betrayed you, Mrs. Hardy. He had an affair, and now took both your sons away from you," Nashville said. "Don't you want justice?"

"If my husband betrayed me, then that is between me and my husband. IF he chose the other woman over me, then that is a matter for the family courts. If my sons choose to stand by their father, then that is their free choice. If Fenton betrayed his country, then that is between him and the country. That is your job; tracking down criminals and traitors," Laura answered in a calm and firm voice. "I will not betray my country. Nor will I betray my husband. If Fenton is guilty, I will not help him escape justice. Nor will I help you get him. I will stand by my husband as a wife should. You do your job, sir. And let me do mine. But do not expect me to do your dirty work for you."

"I'm afraid its Callie's decision, Mrs. Hardy," Hartland cut in smoothly.

"This is your chance to get your husband back. There will be a presidential pardon, and everything that happened will be totally wiped clean," Nashville continued persuasively now focusing on the younger daughter in law rather than the mother in law who was turning out to be a moral dragon. "All you have to do is to convince Frank to come back here and help us undo what his father did…"

Callie glared at Hartland and Nashville, her lips drawn into a tight line. _Did they take her for a fool?_ Callie thought incredulously. _No way is she going to tell Frank to come back… not now…_

"Look, we understand this came as a big shock to you. Please take a couple of days to think over what we said. Feel free to call us if you have any other concerns or questions," Hartland finally said when all three women simply sat there and stared back at him and Nashville with stonily.

"Yes we will," Laura replied as she saw them to the door.

She almost slammed the door after them but caught herself on time. Fenton would be so proud of her; she succeeded in staying civil to those two buffoons. Two very dangerous buffoons, Laura amended.

"How dared they come into our home and accused our men of betraying their country. After everything Frank did for them, how dared they accuse my husband of betraying his country! And how dared they suggest I betray my own husband!" Callie hissed furiously the moment Laura saw the two Pentagon agents out of the door.

Laura Hardy was in total agreement with her daughter-in-law.

"Calm down, Callie," Aunt Gertrude said in a deceptively calm voice, turning to Laura, she added tersely. "If we do not give them the response they wanted, they will come for Callie and the kids. Those are the kind of people we are dealing with here."

Laura bit her lips a little worriedly. "Perhaps we should all have moved out…"

"Laura, you know that we could all have taken the safer and easier way out by simply packing up and leaving. But we all decided to stay and fight it out, remember?" Gertrude reminded gently. "We all agreed that we wanted Joe to come home, here to Bayport in America…"

"This is our home. We are Americans. We have done nothing wrong, and we will not be driven away. Those cowards have been bullying those weaker, poorer, less educated, and less connected people for so long, they have forgotten what it was like to face a standard honest middle-class working American," Callie added confidently. "They are about to find out..."

"Haven't I always said that Callie is the perfect wife for Frank?" Gertrude laughed as she reached for her huge bulging handbag.

"We will have to take precautions," Laura warned Callie.

"I will. And I have contacted the old gang, I am sure they would be more than willing to help out," Callie assured her mother in law.

"Have we heard from Fenton yet?" Gertrude asked.

"Nothing after that last call just before they landed in New Alarumqi," Laura answered.

One could not miss the worry in her tone.

"Don't you fret, Laura. Thanks to Hartland, we know they are all alive and well," Gertrude said reassuringly as she took a closer look at the 'family reunion' photograph. "Even Joe…"

Laura took over that photograph that Hartland intentionally left behind. She spent the next few seconds just looking at her golden head baby whom she thought she might never see again and smiled. "You're right…"

"So what are we going to do now?" Callie wanted to know.

Gertrude started flipping through her phone book. "Those Pentagon patriots wanted us to help them wash their dirty linens. And I have every intention of helping them. I'm going to call up some of my old friends and we will see what we can dig up about that super-secretive National Interest Department…"

Laura grinned. There was no one like Gertrude when it comes to doing laundry and cleaning old soiled linens.

-o-

"Arthur Gray…"

"Melanie Sheppard," Gray acknowledged after a suitable pause, and a charming smile slowly crept onto his lips.

"It has been a long while since we last met," Melanie commented as she picked and choose the finger food from the overflowing buffet table.

"Three years," Gray stated, piling his plate with the usual fare that he had no intention of finishing. "You missed the last two Alumni gathering."

Gray smiled and nodded at his former classmates who walked by. Despite the fact that they were all graduates of this respectable school of political science and international studies, only a handful of them eventually went into politics. The party around them was going on full swing.

"I was busy… and I see you're still the swinging bachelor," Melanie continued the previous conversation as if they never parted her eyes pointedly on his fingers.

"I am still waiting for you, as I promised I would," Gray answered in a gallant teasing tone.

Joy flashed for the merest moment from the depths of her emerald green eyes. It was just long enough that Gray to see, and then it was gone. It was far too dangerous for the wrong people to know of their true relationship with each other.

"I see you're still as charming as you were in college." The voice that replied was one of detached bemusement.

"And you are still as beautiful…" Gray returned as he passed her a flute of champagne he pinched from a passing waiter.

Melanie accepted the champagne, and their fingers brushed pass each other. In that touch was all the intimacy they imagined every night but never had for the last twenty years.

"Thanks," Melanie pocketed the little chip in a secured compartment of her handbag with her left hand before sending Gray the acknowledgement via her eyes.

"And what are these for?" she queried tipping her glass flute slightly towards Gray.

"Have I congratulated you on making it as the youngest Deputy Attorney General?" Gray lifted his flute as if to make a toast. "Don't bother denying. The senate will confirm your new position before the end of the week. I have material evidence…"

"Really?" Melanie drawled as her eyes glittered as he hand unconsciously roamed over the spot where she hid the chip. "You must have some interesting sources…"

Their eyes met and held.

_It's almost over_, Gray promised her with his eyes.

They smiled.

About twenty years ago, Melanie came to him for help when her unofficial mentor was declared rogue by the Pentagon. Both of them were then senior field agents. Before he could help, the mentor was dead, killed by enemy fire, according to official Pentagon reports. They started an unofficial investigation that hinted at a major cover-up. For what they had no idea, so they continued digging. Neither of them liked the implications of what they eventually deduced. They uncovered over the years, a number of agents declared rogue and later turned up dead under interesting conditions. Those were all good agents; good as in men of honor and integrity. Men like Frank Hardy. It was just improbable that so many of them would turn. But given the depth of the cover-up, both knew they needed not only hard evidence, but also political clout. So he stayed in the shady world of intrigue and Melanie braved the dirty world of politics.

"Sometimes, those rather interesting sources find me…" he replied cryptically.

And so it did. The information on the memory card was the best proof he had that sometimes the dead walked. _Joseph Hardy, you really have the lives of a cat,_ Gray shook his head mentally in amazement of what he now knew of that once impulsive and troublesome boy. The 'proofs' on that memory card was compiled by a small number of people who were supposed to be dead, including one Joe Hardy. He could not help but wonder if Frank had recognized his brother's work on that memory card.

"That is one story I must get from you at a later date. It's great catching up with you, but there's someone I have to talk to…" Melanie excused herself – they had been chatting for too along already, and they both knew it.

She would socialize for a while more, and then she would head home. She could not wait to see what Gray had for her this time. In her ten years in politics, she had also done her best to see a few good men appointed to various key positions that were most people would overlook. She hoped what she had in place would be enough to tide them all through.

Gray remained where he was for a while. He mingled with the same few friends as he did every single reunion until he saw from the corner of his eye, Melanie quietly leaving by the side door. Then he made some excuses to leave as well. There was no longer any reason for him to stay.

* * *

_Sorry pals, due to limited time on the net, will answer here:_

_1) Yes, we have been consuming some of those brands. No haven't gone for Melamine checkup yet. Yes, I am stressed up worried. And no, there is nothing we can do about it - but we think we should be fine, shouldn't we? You won't believe how quickly the list of Melamine tainted products are growing._

_2) Prank and Co - hey thanks. I admit upgrading draft to this is stressful. LOL - thanks for suggesting that the draft is good enough for the challenge... will keep that in mind if I get too stressed with the upgrading. I do love Romance of the Three Kingdoms, but trying to insert them here is a nightmare. _

_Tukkie - that story that you asked for was my miserable attempt at Joe-angst and didn't quite work out. I'm not sure if I even have that file anymore. Will see what I can find...stop blackmailing me with that birthday line  
_

_SM: __And I'm rewriting Aliens part 4 - I admit to not having a single romantic bone in my body - no wonder I gave the brothers soul mates in the first place..._


End file.
